UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


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UlslvhKSrrV  of  CALlFUKiNi^. 

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V.    ■ 


THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 


THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

An  Anthology 
FOR  YOUNGER  READERS 

BY 
JOHN  DRINKWATER 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  AIIFFLIN  COMPANY 


•    •  : 


•        9       fl  , 


143484 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
ALL  BIGHTS  RESERVED 


SECOND  IMPRESSION,  OCTOBER,  1922 
THIRD  IMPRESSION,  OCTOBER,  I923 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED  IN  THE  U.S.A. 


•         •   • 


?N 


^  6110 


I 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


Compiler  and  publishers  acknowledge  their  indebtedness 
to  the  following  authors  and  publishers  for  the  use  of  copy- 
right poems:  — 

Mr.  Laurence  Binyon  for  "A  Song." 
Mr.  Gordon  Bottomley  for  "Netted  Strawberries," 
Brentano's  for  "Had  I  a  Golden  Pound,"  by  Francis 
Ledwidge. 
Mr.  Robert  Bridges  for  "The  Windmill,"  from  Shorter 
^        Poems. 
^  Mr.  Jonathan  Cape,  London,  for  "Raptures,"  "Leisure," 

^       and  "The  Moon,"  by  W.  H.  Davies. 
A  -N  Messrs.  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.  for  "The  Soldier,"  from  Col- 

lected Poems,  by  Rupert  Brooke. 

Messrs.  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.  for  "O  Captain!  my 
Captain!"  by  Walt  Whitman. 

Messrs.  E.  P.  Button  &  Co.  for  "The  Donkey,"  from 
J  The  Wild  Knight,  and  Other  Poems,  by  G.  K.  Chesterton; 

c),      and  "Romance,"  from  The  Dark  Wind,  by  W.  J.  Turner. 


>i 


\ 


^ 


Mr.  R.  L.  Gales  for  "The  Temptation  of  St,  Anthony. 

Mr.  Robert  Graves  foF  "Star  Talk." 

Messrs.  Harcourt,  Brace  &  Co.  for  "Beautiful  Meals," 
from  The  Little  School,  by  T.  Sturge  Moore. 

Messrs.  Henry  Holt  &  Co.  for  "Nicholas  Nye,"  from 
Peacock  Pie,  and  "Arabia,"  from  The  Listeners,  by  Walter 
de  la  Mare. 

qX  Messrs.  Longmans,  Green  &  Co.  for  "  Inscription  for  an 

^      Old  Bed,"  by  William  Morris. 

The  Macmillan  Company  for  "The  Dancing  Seal"  and 
"The  Ice  Cart,"  from  Collected  Poems,  by  Wilfrid  Wilson 
Gibson;  "The  Oxen,"  from  Moments  of  Vision,  by  Thomas 
Hardy;  "Stupidity  Street,"  "The  Bells  of  Heaven,"  and 
"Time,  you  Old  Gipsy  Man,"  from  Poems,  by  Ralph  Hodg- 


vi  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

son;  and  "The  Wild  Duck"  and  "On  Malvern  Hill,"  by 

John  Masefield, 

Mrs.  Alice  Meynell  for  "Easter  Night,"  from  Father  of 
Women,  and  Other  Poems. 

Mr.  Harold  Monro  for  "Strange  Meetings,"  "Over- 
heard on  a  Saltmarsh,"  and  "Real  Property." 

Mr.  Robert  Nichols  for  "Plaint  of  an  Humble  Servant." 

Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  "I  will  make  you 
Brooches"  and  "Requiem,"  by  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

Mr.  Frank  Sidgwick  for  "A  Christmas  Legend." 

Mr.  J.  C.  Squire  for  "The  Ship,"  from  Poems:  First  Se- 
ries (Alfred  A.  Knopf,  Inc.). 

Mr.  James  Stephens  for  "In  the  Poppy  Field." 


CONTENTS 

A  Frog  he  would  a-wooing  go,  Nursery  Rhyme  38 

A  Slumber  did  my  Spirit  seal,  William  Words- 
worth 69 

A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea,  Allan  Cunning- 
ham 143 

And  did  those  Feet  in  Ancient  Time,  William 

Blake  79 

And    shall    Trelawny    die?    Robert    Stephen 

Hawker  14 

Arabia,  Walter  de  la  Mare  183 

Atheist  and  the  Acorn,  The,  Anne,  Countess  of 

WiNCHELSEA  QI 

Autumn,  John  Clare  210 

Autumn  :  A  Dirge,  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  12 

Banks  o'  Doon,  The,  Robert  Burns  190 
Bayliffe's  Daughter  of  Islington,  The,  Anony- 
mous 144 
Beanfield,  The,  John  Clare  108 

^_,,B^autiful  Meals,  T.  Sturge  Moore  II 

Beggar  Maid,  The,  Alfred  Tennyson  16 

Belle  Dame  sans  Merci,  La,  John  Keats  136 

Bells  of  Heaven,  The,  R^vlph  Hodgson  78 

Bells  of  London,  The,  Nursery  Rhyme  31 

Blackbird,  John  Drinkwater  lo 

Bonny  Earl  of  Murray,  The,  Anonymous  72 

Boy's  Song,  A,  James  Hogg  44 

^,-Btiook,  The,  Alfred  Tennyson  24 

By  the  Sea,  William  Wordsworth  186 

Chanted  Calendar,  A,  Sydney  Dobell  42 
Character  of  a  Happy  Life,  The,  Sir  Henry 

WoTTON  114 

Christ\ias  Carol,  A,  George  Wither  147 

Christmas  Legend,  A,  Frank  Sidgwick  63 

Cuckoo,  To  the,  William  Wordsworth  9 


viii  CONTENTS 

Daffodil,  Michael  Drayton  6o 

Daffodils,  The,  William  Wordsworth  107 

Daffodils,  To,  Robert  Herrick  6 

Dancing  Seal,  The,  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson  I16 

Dear  God,  To  his,  Robert  Herrick  185 

Dear  is  my  Little  Native  Vale,  Samuel  Rogers  134 

Death,  Katherine  Phillips  86 

Death  stands  above  me,  Walter  Savage  Landor  115 

Description  of  the  Spring,  A,  Sir  Henry  Wotton  48 

Deserted  Village,  The,  Oliver  Goldsmith  150 

Dirge  from  "  Cymbeline, "  William  Shakespeare  193 

Donkey,  The,  G.  K.  Chesterton  1 19 

Drake's  Drum,  Henry  Newbolt  142 

Dream-Pedlary,  Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes  27 

Easter  Night,  Alice  Meynell  195 
Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog,  Oliver  Gold- 
smith 5 
Elegy    written    in    a    Country  Churchyard, 

Thomas  Gray  205 

Elixir,  The,  George  Herbert  77 

Epitaph  on  a  Hare,  William  Cowper  122 

Epitaph  on  Charles  H,  The  Earl  of  Rochester  150 

Evening  Song,  John  Fletcher  52 

Favourite  Cat,  drowned  in  a  Tub  of  Goldfishes, 

On  a,  Thomas  Gray  3 

Garden,  The,  Andrew  Marvell  2II 
Glories  of  our  Blood  and  State,  The,  James  Shir- 
ley 192 
Green  Linnet,  The,  William  Wordsworth  65 

Had  I  A  Golden  Pound,  Francis  Ledwidge  172 

He  that  loves  a  Rosy  Cheek,  Thomas  Carew  80 

Helen  of  Kirconnell,  Anonymous  73 

Heraclitus,  William  Cory  194 

His  Prayer  to  Ben  Jonson,  Robert  Herrick  181 

JiOME-TnOUGHTS,    FROM    AbROAD,    RoBERT    BrOWN- 

ING  23 

How  MANY  Miles  is  it  to  Babylon?  Nursery 

Rhyme  4' 


CONTENTS  ix 

I  HAD  A  Little  Hobby-Horse,  Nursery  Rhyme  35 

I  HAD  A  Little  Nut-Tree,  Nursery  Rhyme  36 

I  HAD  A  Little  Pony,  Nursery  Rhyme  34 

I  SAW  Three  Ships,  Anonymous  75 

I  WILL  MAKE  YOU  BrOOCHES,  RobERT  LoUIS  StEVEN- 

SON  50 

Ice  Cart,  The,  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson  169 

L\  Lady  Street,  John  Drinkwater  13 i 

^xfN  Memoriam,  Alfred  Tennyson  29 

In  the  Poppy  Field,  James  Stephens  2 

Inscription  for  an  Old  Bed,  William  Morris  27 

Isles  of  Greece,  The,  Byron  87 

Jack  and  Joan,  Thomas  Campion  17 

Jacobite's  Epitaph,  A,  Lord  Macaulay  141 

John  Anderson  my  Jo,  Robert  Burns  170 
Johnny  shall  have  a  New  Bonnet,  Nursery 

Rhyme  32 

La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci,  John  Keats  136 
Lapful  of  Nuts,  The,  Samuel  Ferguson  106 
Lark,  To  the,  Robert  Herrick  124 
Laughing  Song,  William  Blake  131 
Lawn  as  White  as  Driven  Snow,  William  Shake- 
speare 69 
^J::fisuRE,  W.  H.  Davies  55 
Letter,  A,  Matthew  Prior  28 
Little  Trotty  Wagtail,  John  Clare  2 
Lord  R^\ndal,  Anonymous  76 
Lord  Ullin's  Daughter,  Thomas  Campbell  46 
Love's  Philosophy,  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  iio 
Lucasta,  To,  going  to  the  Wars,  Richard  Love- 
lace III 

Mad  Maid's  Song,  The,  Robert  Herrick  138 

M/esia's  Song,  Robert  Greene  82 

Man  of  Life  Upright,  The,  Thomas  Campion  109 

Mary's  Lamb,  Nursery  Rhyme  41 

Meadows,  To,  Robert  LIerrick  198 

Menaphon's  Roundelay,  Robert  Greene  51 

Moon,  The,  W.  H.  Davies  178 


X  CONTENTS 

Mrs.  Willow,  John  Drinkwater  173 

My  Heart  leaps  up,  William  Wordsworth  107 

My  Lady  Greensleaves,  Anonymous  189 

Netted  Strawberries,  Gordon  Bottomley  121 

Nicholas  Nye,  Walter  de  la  Mare  67 

Night,  William  Blake  S3 

Now  that  the  Winter's  Gone,  Thomas  Carew  105 

Nursery  Rhymes  3^ 

Nurse's  Song,  William  Blake  126 

O  Captain!  my  Captain!  Walt  Whitman  140 
Ode:  "How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest," 

William  Collins  79 
Ode  to  Autumn,  John  Keats  202 
Ode  to  the  West  Wind,  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  199 
Old  Crow,  John  Drinkwater  59 
Old  King  Cole,  Nursery  Rhyme  36 
On  a  Favourite  Cat,  drowned  in  a  Tub  of  Gold- 
fishes, Thomas  Gray  3 
On  his  Seventy-Fifth  Birthday,  Walter  Savage 

Landor  115 

On  Malvern  Hill,  John  Masefield  184 

On  May  Morning,  John  Milton  23 

Over  Hill,  over  Dale,  William  Shakespeare  70 

Overheard  on  a  Saltmarsh,  Harold  Monro  139 

Owl,  The,  Alfred  Tennyson  67 

Oxen,  The,  Thomas  Hardy  125 

Pack,  Clouds,  away,  Thomas  Heywood  71 
Pan,  John  Fletcher  105 
Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love,  The,  Christo- 
pher Marlowe  i°7 
_^-Past  and  Present,  Thomas  Hood  57 
Perfect  Life,  The,  Ben  Jonson  84 
Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin,  The,  Robert  Browning  93 
Plaint  of  an  Humble  Servant,  Robert  Nichols  176 
Plough,  The,  Richard  Henry  Horne  166 
Poet's  Dream,  The,  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  112 
Prayer  to  Ben  Jonson,  His,  Robert  Herrick  181 
Preparation,  Anonymous  io4 


CONTENTS  3d 

Quiet  Life,  The,  Alexander  Pope  2a 

Raptures,  W.  H.  Davies  7 

Real  Property,  Harold  Monro  19^ 

Reaper,  The,  William  Wordsworth  167 

Red,  Red  Rose,  A,  Robert  Burns  192 

Requiem,  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  92 

Resignation,  Walter  Savage  Landor  146 

Ro^LANCE,  W.  J.  Turner  181 

Rose  Aylmer,  Walter  Savage  Landor  57 

Roundelay,  Thomas  Chatterton  129 

Ruth,  TH0^LA.s  Hood  .  44 

Sands  of  Dee,  The,  Charles  Kingsley  13 

Scholar  Gipsy,  The,  Matthew  Arnold  _     215 

She  dwelt  among  the  Untrodden  Ways,  William 

Wordsworth  112 

Ship,  The,  J.  C.  Squire  196 

Simple  Simon,  Nursery  Rhyme  34 

Sister,  A,  William  Wordsworth  58 

Soldier,  The,  Rupert  Brooke  174 

Song:  "Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows," 

Thomas  Carew  191 

Song:  "How  sweet  I  roam'd  from  field  to  field," 

William  Blake  128 

Song:  "When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall,"  William 

Shakespeare  8 

Song,  A:  "A  widow  bird  sat  mourning  for  her 

LOVE,"  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  70 

Song,    A:    "For    Mercy,    Courage,    Kindness, 

Mirth,"  Laurence  Binyon  109 

Song  from  "Pippa  Passes,"  Robert  Browning  127 

Songs  of  Innocence,  William  Blake  i 

Sonnet:  "When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent 

thought,"  William  Shakespeare  I9S 

Spring  Morning,  William  Browne  49 

Star  Talk,  Robert  Graves  179 

Strange  Meetings,  Harold  Monro  24 

Stupidity  Street,  Ralph  Hodgson  lO 

Sweet  and  Low,  Alfred  Tennyson  127 

Sweet  Peace,  Henry  Vauguan  XI3 


xii  CONTENTS 

Sylvia,  William  Shakespeare  125 

Temptation  of  Saint  Anthony,  The,  R.  L.  Gales  171 
Thanksgiving  to  God  for  his  House,  A,  Robert 

Herrick  203 
The   Frog   he   would  a-wooing   ride.   Nursery 

Rhyme  32 
The  Glories  of  our  Blood  and  State,  James  Shir- 
ley 192 
..JTh  e  North  Wind  doth  blow,  Nursery  Rhyme  3  7 
There  was  a  Crooked  Man,  Nursery  Rhyme  35 
There  was  a  Jolly  Miller,  Isaac  Bickerstaffe  42 
There  was  a  Man  of  Newington,  Nursery  Rhyme  35 
Thrush's  Nest,  The,  John  Clare  116 
Tiger,  The,  William  Blake,  120 
Time  goes  by  Turns,  Robert  Southwell  85 
Time,  you  Old  Gipsy  Man,  Ralph  Hodgson  81 
To  Bed,  to  Bed,  Nursery  Rhyme  41 
To  Daffodils,  Robert  Herrick  6 
To  his  Dear  God,  Robert  Herrick  185 
To  his  Love,  William  Shakespeare  188 
To  Lucasta,  going  to  the  Wars,  Richard  Lovelace  hi 
To  Meadows,  Robert  Herrick  198 
To  the  Cuckoo,  William  Wordsworth  9 
To  the  Lark,  Robert  Herrick  124 
Toys,  The,  Coventry  Patmore  175 

Upon  Westminster  Bridge,  Willlam  Wordsworth    135 

Verses  written  in  the  Tower  the  Night  before  he 
was  Beheaded,  Chidiock  Tichborne  84 

Weel  may  the  Keel  row,  Anonymous  15 

Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea,  A,  Allan  Cunning- 
ham 143 
What  Pleasures  have  Great  Princes,  Anonymous      82 
Where  are  you  going,  my  Pretty  Maid,  Nursery 

Rhyme  37 

Widdicombe  Fair,  Old  Ballad  18 

Wild  Duck,  The,  John  Masefield  178 

Windmill,  The,  Robert  Bridges  168 


CONTENTS  xiil 

Wish,  A,  Abraham  Cowley  56 

Wish,  A,  Samuel  Rogers  21 

With  A  Copy  of  Herrick,  Edmund  Gosse  184 

World,  The,  William  Wordsworth  I13 

World  a  Game,  The,  Willlam  Drummond  92 

Yattendon,  Henry  Newbolt  214 


INTRODUCTION 

ABOUT  POETRY 

Nothing  In  the  world  gives  people  so  much  real  pleas- 
ure as  making  things.  And  have  you  ever  tried  to 
think  exactly  what  making  a  thing  means?  It 
does  n't  mean  making  something  out  of  nothing  in  a 
magical  way,  but  It  means  taking  a  thing,  or  a  num- 
ber of  things  that  are  already  in  existence,  and  so 
arranging  them,  that  In  addition  to  the  things  that 
have  been  used,  an  entirely  new  thing  comes  into 
being. 

For  instance,  a  man  may  take  thousands  of  bricks, 
each  of  which  is  a  separate  thing  that  has  already 
been  made,  and  out  of  them  make  an  entirely  new 
thing,  a  house.  And  in  building  a  house  the  man  is 
happy  for  two  reasons  —  because  he  Is  making  a  use- 
ful thing,  a  place  where  he  or  some  one  else  can  live, 
and  also  because  he  is  able  to  take  a  lot  of  bricks  that 
have  been  lying  in  heaps,  that  do  not  seem  to  mean 
anything,  and  arrange  them  so  that  they  become  a 
house,  which  means  a  great  deal.  And  there  is  noth- 
ing which  gives  us  so  much  satisfaction  as  this  ability 
to  make  disorder  into  order  and  give  a  useful  mean- 
ing to  things  that  until  we  have  arranged  them  — 
just  as  the  man  arranges  his  bricks  into  a  house  — 
seemed  to  have  no  use  or  meaning  at  all. 

Now  it  is  a  curious  thing  that  by  using  our  minds 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

we  are  able  to  get  just  this  same  kind  of  pleasure, 
which  is  so  good  for  us,  without  having  any  real 
things  to  arrange.  If  you  shut  your  eyes  and  then 
think  of  a  horse,  for  example,  it  is  certain  that  there 
is  no  real  horse  that  you  are  looking  at,  and  yet  in 
some  wonderful  way  you  have  been  able  to  make  a 
horse  in  your  mind  out  of  nothing.  And  the  truth  is 
that  the  idea  of  a  horse  which  you  have  been  able  to 
call  up  in  your  mind,  is  just  as  real  a  thing,  and  just  as 
important  to  you,  as  the  horse  that  you  may  see  in 
the  street.  And  nothing  will  help  you  more  in  your 
life  than  the  habit  of  seeing  things  in  your  mind  very 
clearly;  the  habit  not  only  of  making  things  with  your 
hands,  but  of  making  them  in  your  mind  as  well. 
And  just  as,  if  you  were  building  a  house  of  bricks, 
you  would  not  get  the  greatest  possible  pleasure  un- 
less you  built  a  good,  well-shaped,  and  complete 
house,  so  you  will  not  get  the  greatest  possible  pleas- 
ure from  the  things  that  you  make  in  your  mind,  un- 
less they  too  are  well-shaped  and  complete.  You  will 
find,  for  instance,  that  if  you  think  about  a  horse  with 
your  eyes  shut,  that  is  to  say,  if  you  make  a  horse  in 
your  mind,  you  will  get  far  more  pleasure  if  you  have 
learnt  how  to  make  it  very  exactly  and  clearly,  than 
if  you  are  only  able  to  make  it  uncertainly,  so  that 
the  horse  in  your  mind  is  a  confused  kind  of  thing. 

I  have  said  that  the  pleasure  that  we  get  from  mak- 
ing things,  whether  with  our  hands  or  in  our  minds,  is 
good  for  us.  This  is  so  because,  ever  since  the  earth 
began,  the  greatest  purpose  of  the  life  on  it  has  been  to 
grow  from  a  confusion  that  cannot  be  understood  into 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

clear  shapes  that  can  be  well  understood,  and  when 
we  make  anything  clearly  and  exactly  we  are  helping 
this  purpose.  So  that  if  the  thing  that  we  make  is  not 
clear,  but  only,  so  to  speak,  half  made  or  a  quarter 
made,  we  are  failing  to  help  the  life  of  which  we  are  a 
part  as  fully  as  we  might,  and  our  pleasure  is  less  in 
consequence.  That  is  why,  when  you  make  a  horse 
(or  any  other  thing)  in  your  mind,  you  will  get  far 
less  satisfaction  if  it  is  only  a  vague  horse,  a  little 
like  a  horse  perhaps  and  a  little  like  a  donkey,  shall 
we  say,  and  a  little  like  a  bush  or  a  wheelbarrow, 
than  you  will  if  it  is  a  horse  clearly  and  completely 
made.  i 

And  if  we  think  about  this  a  minute  or  two  longer, 
we  shall  see  that  very  often  the  things  that  we  make 
in  our  minds  are  suggested  to  us  by  some  one  else.  If 
I  tell  you  that  I  saw  the  moon  last  night,  you  will  at 
once  make  the  moon  in  your  mind.  And  if  some  one 
has  himself  seen  a  thing  very  clearly  indeed,  he  will 
be  able  to  tell  us  about  it  so  well  that  we  in  our  turn 
can  make  it  very  clearly  in  our  own  minds,  and  so  get 
an  especially  large  amount  of  that  pleasure  of  which 
I  have  spoken.  And  it  is  just  this  that  the  poets  can 
do  for  us,  and  that  is  why  their  poems  can  give  us  so 
much  delight. 

The  poet  sees  or  understands  something  very 
clearly  indeed,  so  clearly  that  he  is  able  to  put  it 
quite  clearly  into  his  poem,  and  then  in  a  wonderful 
way  we  make  it  all  over  again  for  ourselves  in  our 
minds.  For  instance,  William  Alorris  saw  the  river 
Thames  flowing  on  a  cold  winter  night  underneath 


xvlii  INTRODUCTION 

the  hills  by  his  country  home.  And  he  saw  it  so 
clearly  that  he  was  able  to  tell  us  about  it  in  words  so 
well  chosen,  and  arranged  so  beautifully  for  us  to 
hear,  that  we  cannot  read  them  without  finding  all 
our  best  ability  helping  us  in  the  delightful  experience 
of  seeing  it  all  as  clearly  as  Morris  himself  saw  it: 

"The  wind's  on  the  wold 

And  the  night  is  a-cold 

And  Thames  runs  chill 

•'Twlxt  mead  and  hill." 

Now  forget  about  all  this,  and  read  the  poems  in 
this  book.  And  after  a  time,  when  you  have  got  used 
to  them  and  know  which  ones  ycu  like  best,  read 
again  what  I  have  been  saying,  and  I  hope  it  will  help 
you  to  understand  something  about  what  poetry  may 
be  to  you  now  and  through  all  your  lives.  For,  while 
the  first  and  by  far  the  most  important  matter  is  to 
like  a  good  thing,  it  is  helpful,  and,  indeed,  increases 
our  Hking,  if  we  can  find  out  why  we  like  it. 

THE  POET'S  WORDS  AND  IMAGES 

I  HAVE  tried  to  tell  you  something  of  the  reason  why 
poetry  could  give  us  so  much  pleasure,  and  do  so 
much  to  enrich  our  lives  and  our  ways  of  thought.  I 
want  now  to  talk  a  little  about  the  way  in  which  the 
poet  does  his  work,  so  that  you  may  begin  to  under- 
stand what  lies  behind  the  making  of  the  poetry  that 
we  find  so  full  of  enchantment.  And,  again,  I  do  not 
want  you  to  puzzle  too  much  over  what  I  say,  but 
just  to  read  it  carefully,  and  then  from  time  to  time 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

go  back  to  it,  from  the  poems  themselves,  in  the  hope 
that  it  may  gradually  help  you  to  form  your  own 
clear  judgment  about  the  things  that  you  read. 

And  first,  although  it  seems  a  very  simple  thing  to 
say,  it  is  important  to  remember  always,  that  the 
material  which  the  poet  uses  for  his  work  is  words. 
Words  to  the  poet  are  what  paint  is  to  the  painter,  or 
*tone  or  marble  to  the  sculptor,  or  notes  of  sound  to 
the  composer  of  music.  So  that  if  a  poet  uses  his 
words  well  he  needs  no  other  help,  while  if  he  uses 
them  badly  nothing  can  be  done  to  make  his  poem 
anything  but  worthless.  Let  us  think  what  this 
means.  Suppose  a  poet  to  be  looking  along  a  country 
lane  on  a  dry  autumn  day,  just  when  most  of  the 
leaves  have  fallen  from  the  trees.  Seeing  the  flock  of 
many-coloured  leaves  driven  along  by  the  wind,  his 
emotions  are  stirred,  and  he  then  feels  the  need  of  shap- 
ing the  emotion  into  the  clear  shapes  of  poetry.  And  to 
do  this  he  has  nothing  but  words  for  his  purpose.  So 
far  as  we  are  concerned,  it  is  of  no  use  for  him  to  dance 
or  wave  his  arms  about  in  excitement,  or  rush  along  as 
though  he  too  were  a  leaf  driven  by  the  wind.  To  do 
these  things  might  in  a  certain  way  express  his  feel- 
ings, although  it  would  be  an  expression  of  far  less 
meaning  than  the  exact  statements  of  poetry,^  but  in 

'  If,  for  instance,  you  had  been  with  Wordsworth  when  he  saw 
a  rainbow,  and  he  had  suddenly  stopped  walking  and  pointed  to  it, 
drawing  a  deep  sigh  of  pleasure,  just  as  any  one  in  thousands  of 
men  might  do,  you  would  have  by  no  means  realised  his  personal 
delight  as  intimately  as  you  now  do  when  you  read  his  simple  but 
complete  words  — 

"My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 
A  rainbow  in  the  sky."  • 


XX  INTRODUCTION 

any  case  they  would  mean  nothing  to  us,  since  we 
should  see  nothing  of  them.  So  that  what  he  has  to 
record  must  be  recorded  in  words,  and  in  words  alone. 
This,  by  the  way,  is  the  reason  why  it  is  so  bad,  when 
you  are  reading  poetry  aloud  to  people,  to  add  to  the 
words  all  sorts  of  gestures  and  facial  expressions.  The 
poet  when  he  has  finally  chosen  and  arranged  his 
words,  if  his  poem  is  worth  reading  at  all,  has  already 
said  completely  what  he  had  to  say,  and  if  we  add  to 
his  perfect  expression  this  other  feeble  expression  of 
our  own,  it  is  nothing  but  an  impertinence,  as  though 
we  were  saying,  "This  poet  is  not  able  to  express 
himself  very  clearly,  so  we  must  help  him  out." 

Having  now  seen  that  words  are  what  he  has  en- 
tirely to  depend  upon,  we  shall  realise  how  necessary 
it  is  that  the  selection  and  arranging  of  words  shall  be 
his  own  doing  and  not  as  he  remembers  it  to  have 
been  done  by  some  one  else.  If  the  poet  really  sees 
that  scene  of  the  country  lane  and  blown  leaves  with 
his  own  eyes  and  in  his  own  heart,  he  will  be  so  intent 
upon  his  personal  experience  that  his  mind  will  be  ab- 
sorbed in  inventing  a  personal  way  of  expressing  that 
experience;  he  will,  in  fact,  create,  and  it  is  just  this 
creating  that  makes  us  create  for  ourselves  when  we 
read  his  poem,  and  so  gives  us  so  much  precious  de- 
light, as  I  have  already  explained.  But  if  his  experi- 
ence is  a  vague  and  incomplete  one,  his  mind,  in- 
stead of  working  vigorously  to  create  for  itself,  will 
lazily  turn  away  to  remember  what  some  one  else  has 
said  about  the  same  kind  of  thing,  and  since  one  mind 
can  never  repeat  another  mind's  work  perfectly,  he 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

will  only  manage  a  half-expression,  a  second-hand 
and  cheating  expression,  and  directly  we  understand 
anything  about  poetry  we  are  able  to  see  through 
this  kind  of  deception  at  once,  and  we  know  that  it  is 
useless  to  us,  and  gives  us  no  real  pleasure  at  all.  Be- 
cause what  happens  in  this  case  is  that  the  poet  only 
gets  a  vague  expression  to  match  his  vague  experi- 
ence, and  he  makes  it  vague  in  our  minds  too,  which 
is  exactly  what  poetry  must  never  do. 

We  may  now  see  how  a  great  poet  treats  the  vision 
he  had  of  the  autumn  wind  and  the  leaves.  Shelley 
wrote  of  it  thus: 

"0  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being, 
Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing, 
Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red." 

You  will  notice  at  first  how  wonderfully  he  brings 
into  our  minds  a  vivid  idea  of  that  "  unseen  presence" 
by  making  it  stir  into  movement  the  dead  leaves, 
which  in  turn  he  makes  so  real  for  us  in  their  sharply 
contrasted  colours  —  "yellow,  and  black,  and  pale, 
and  hectic  red."  And  then  you  will  notice  that  he 
does  more  than  this,  which  brings  me  to  the  other 
thing  I  want  to  tell  you  about  the  poet's  way  of  work- 
ing. He  says  that  the  leaves  are  scattered  by  the 
wind  — 

"Like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing." 

This  is  what  is  called  an  image,  and  to  use  an  image 
is  one  of  the  most  powerful  ways  in  which  the  poet 
can  make  himself  clear  to  us.  Shelley  was  not  writing 
about  ghosts  and  an  enchanter,  but  about  leaves 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

scattered  before  the  wind.  But  the  cloud  of  leaves, 
driven  along  in  commotion,  brought  into  his  mind 
an  image  of  huddled  ghosts  crowding  before  the  en- 
chanter who  had  power  to  drive  them  forth  at  his 
will.  He  set  this  vision  down  very  simply  in  words, 
but  perfectly  — 

"Ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing." 

And  then,  although  he  had  already  conceived  the 
idea  of  the  leaves  driven  before  the  wind  in  words 
that  could  express  it  quite  directly  —  "  thou  from 
whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead  are  driven  .  .  . 
yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red"  —  he 
sharpens  the  whole  picture  in  our  minds  by  taking 
our  thoughts  for  a  moment  to  that  other  idea  of  the 
ghosts  and  the  enchanter,  and  then  telling  us  that 
the  thing  of  which  he  is  actually  writing  is  like  that 
other  thing  of  which  he  is  not  actually  writing.  And 
this  using  of  an  image  to  make  the  impression  of  what 
he  sees  even  clearer  than  it  would  have  been  by  direct 
statement,  however  exact  and  lucid,  is  an  act  of  the 
imagination,  which  word  you  see  is  built  upon  the 
word  image. 

THE  LIFE  OF  POETRY 

If  you  look  at  the  list  of  poets  at  the  end  of  this  book, 
you  will  see  that  while  some  of  the  poems  that  you 
are  reading  were  written  by  men  who,  like  Shake- 
speare, were  born  nearly  four  hundred  years  ago, 
others  were  written  by  men  who  are  living  now.  A 
sage  once  said,  "There  is  no  new  thing  under  the 


'  INTRODUCTION  xxHi 

sun,"  and  yet  it  is  one  of  the  many  wonders  that  we 
learn  from  poetry  that  life,  although  it  goes  on  from 
age  to  age,  concerned  with  the  same  emotions  and 
seeing  the  same  natural  beauty  in  the  world,  is  always 
splendidly  new.    Shakespeare  could  see  and  hear  — 

"Tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stone,  and  good  in  everything," 

and  then  one  poet  after  another  following  him  could 
be  aware  of  the  same  thing,  and  yet,  because  he  did 
strictly  perceive  it  for  himself,  he  could  make  it  as 
new  an  experience  for  himself,  and  for  us  when  we 
read  his  poem,  as  though  no  one  in  the  world  had  ever 
perceived  it  before.  Thus,  nearly  two  hundred  years 
after  Shakespeare,  Wordsworth  could  write  — 

"To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows,  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears." 

and  then,  more  than  a  hundred  years  later  again  we 
have  Mr.  Ralph  Hodgson  with  — 

"The  everlasting  pipe  and  flute 
Of  wind  and  sea  and  bird  and  brute, 
And  lips  deaf  men  imagine  mute 
In  wood  and  stone  and  clay." 

So  that  you  see  the  poet  does  not  have  to  discover 
and  express  new  emotions  and  thoughts,  but  rather 
to  express  any  emotion  and  his  thought  about  it  in 
such  a  way  that  we  are  certain  that  the  experience  in 
his  mind  is  newly  discovered  by  him  and  not  merely 
handed  on  to  him  ready  made  by  some  one  else,  A 
great  poem  might  very  well  be  written  to-morrow 
about  so  simple  and  old  a  thing  as  the  blossoming  of 
an  apple-tree. 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 

You  will  have  noticed  that  often  when  you  feel 
very  intensely  about  anything,  and  whether  the  feel- 
ing be  a  happy  or  a  sad  one,  you  try  to  satisfy  your- 
self by  singing  some  tune  or  another;  that  your  emo- 
tions, in  other  words,  try  to  find  some  sort  of  rhyth- 
mic expression.  This  is  a  deep  law  of  our  natures 
which  none  of  the  philosophers  has  been  able  rightly 
to  explain,  but  it  is  a  law  which  we  all  recognise.  And 
the  poet,  too,  when  he  feels  and  realises  anything 
with  sufficient  intensity,  finds  his  expression  nat- 
urally taking  on  a  rhythmic  form.  With  each  new 
poem  this  rhythm  is  a  fresh  and  personal  thing,  and 
yet  we  find  that  the  language  which  he  has  to  use  has 
through  many  hundreds  of  years  discovered  certain 
forms  or  metres  for  itself  as  being  best  suited  to  its 
character.  And  you  will  notice  as  you  read  these 
books  that  one  poet  after  another  does  in  fact  use  the 
same  metrical  forms,  not  lazily  and  for  want  of  the 
trouble  to  invent  new  ones,  but  because  his  instinct 
tells  him  that  they  are  the  right  and  natural  ones  for 
his  language  to  fall  into.  But  the  strange  and  won- 
derful thing  is  that  each  poet,  while  he  adds  to  his 
authority  by  using  these  traditional  forms,  is  able  to 
impress  them  with  his  own  personal  sense  of  rhythm 
in  such  a  way  that  they  never  grow  stale,  and  are  in- 
deed new  things  with  each  new  poet  who  uses  them. 

And  so  poetry  is  beautifully  like  life  itself  in  seem- 
ing not  to  change  yet  always  being  new.  Each  year 
you  see  the  trees  covering  themselves  with  green,  the 
flowers  in  bloom,  the  young  animals  in  the  fields,  the 
sun  shining  on  the  corn,  the  frost  making  its  icicles 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

and  putting  lovely  patterns  on  the  window.  And  in  a 
way  these  seem  to  be  the  same  trees  and  flowers  and 
seasons  that  have  been  passing  before  men's  eyes  far 
back  through  the  ages,  and  yet  each  year  they  are  all 
marvellously  new,  as  truly  exciting  discoveries  for  us 
when  we  see  them  as  though  there  had  never  been 
such  life  before.  And  so  with  the  poet  and  his  poetry. 
He  sees  the  same  world,  feels  the  same  emotions,  and 
meets  the  same  questions  as  did  his  fathers  for  gener- 
ations before  him,  and  in  finding  expression  for  the 
working  of  his  mind  he  will  generally  accept  a  form 
that  has  grown  up  in  the  practice  of  many  poets 
whom  he  follows.  But  he  sees  and  feels  and  questions 
out  of  his  individual  life,  until  the  old  experience  is 
transfigured  into  something  radiantly  new  and  inter- 
esting, and  he  breathes  into  the  old  forms  of  poetry 
his  own  delighted  sense  of  rhythm,  until  they  too  be- 
come fresh  and  vivid  as  the  flowers  that  come  to  us 
with  untiring  wonder  year  by  year. 

THE  HISTORY  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 

I  HAVE  already  talked  to  you  a  little  of  the  nature 
of  poetry  and  its  meaning  for  us,  of  the  poet's 
methods,  and  of  the  way  in  which  tradition  and  new 
life  combine  to  give  poetry  its  power.  It  may  inter- 
est you  to  know  something  of  the  actual  history  of 
English  poetry,  and  this  again  will  help  you  to 
make  the  pleasure  that  you  get  in  reading  a  clearer 
and  more  orderly  thing  in  your  minds.  To  write  any- 
thing like  a  complete  account  of  the  progress  of  Eng- 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION 

Hsh  poetry  through  six  hundred  years  or  so  would 
take  a  large  volume  instead  of  a  few  pages,  but  it 
may  be  possible  to  give  you  a  simple  outline  that  you 
can  easily  carry  about  in  your  memory  without  con- 
fusing a  very  important  thing,  which  is  the  apprecia- 
tion of  poetry,  with  a  very  unimportant  thing,  which 
is  the  learning  of  dry  facts  about  it. 

The  first  great  poet,  then,  who  wrote  in  the  English 
language  as  we  know  it  to-day,  was  Geoffrey  Chau- 
cer, who  is  sometimes  called  the  father  of  English 
poetry.  In  his  verses,  which  show  a  mastery  of  words 
that  has  never  been  excelled,  he  told  stories  that  are 
among  the  best  that  have  ever  been  told.  When  a 
little  later  on  you  begin  to  read  them  for  yourselves, 
you  will  find  them  full  of  beauty  and  amusement, 
for  Chaucer's  humour  was  as  great  as  his  passion. 
Then  for  nearly  two  hundred  years,  although  poetry 
never  died,  and  was  sometimes  served  by  such  ad- 
mirable poets  as  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  and  the  Earl  of 
Surrey,  there  was  no  very  rich  period,  and  Chaucer 
remained  a  great  and  solitary  figure  in  the  art.  It 
was  not  until  towards  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury, or  something  over  three  hundred  years  ago, 
that  a  large  group  of  poets  began  to  work  together 
towards  making  English  poetry  the  thing  of  which 
we  should  be  prouder  than  of  anything  else  that 
England  has  given  to  the  world.  It  was  then  that 
Christopher  Marlowe  and  Edmund  Spenser  and  Ben 
Jonson  and  William  Shakespeare  walked  about  the 
streets  of  London,  and  wrote  the  poems  and  plays 
that  have  grown  even  more  wonderful  as  the  years 


INTRODUCTION  xxvli 

have  gone  by,  until  to-day  they  seem  as  much  a  part 
of  an  Englishman's  life  as  his  rivers  and  counties. 
With  these  great  ones  were  a  host  of  others  —  it 
would  be  easy  to  name  twenty  —  who  shared  the 
inspiration  and  added  to  the  glory  of  what  we  call  the 
Elizabethan  age. 

From  that  time  the  full  tide  of  English  poetry  has 
moved  on  unchecked  down  to  our  own  day.  It  is 
difficult,  and  not  very  useful,  to  say  exactly  after 
Elizabeth's  time  where  one  period  of  poetry  ended 
and  another  began,  but  the  next  great  poet  after 
Shakespeare  to  stand  out  in  supremacy  was  John 
Milton,  who  was  born  about  the  time  that  Shake- 
speare died.  The  Elizabethans  had  been  tremen- 
dously interested  in  the  daily  life  about  them,  and 
even  in  their  most  tragic  passions  there  is  a  certain 
intimacy  of  detail  that  makes  us  remember  that  they 
were  men  like  ourselves,  puzzled  and  anxious  and 
brave  and  excitedly  happy  by  turns.  But  Milton, 
who  was  blind  for  a  long  term  of  his  life,  making  his 
greatest  poems  out  of  his  meditation  upon  God's  deal- 
ings with  the  world  and  men  that  he  had  created, 
seemed  to  move  in  a  serene,  almost  untroubled  mas- 
tery of  thought,  and  that  is  why  he  is  so  consoling  a 
poet  to  go  to  when  we  find  life  and  the  aifairs  of  men 
most  difficult  and  unintelligible.  He  gives  us  then 
something  of  his  own  noble  imagination  with  which 
to  rise  above  the  narrow  ways  of  our  lesser  vision. 
And  just  when  this  poet  was  creating  the  sublimest 
world  in  all  poetry,  where  gods  and  angels  and  devils 
embodied   the  highest   imaginings  that  the  human 


xxviii  INTRODUCTION 

mind  could  conceive,  others,  notably  Robert  Herrick, 
were  writing  exquisite  lyrics  of  the  country  side  and 
the  simple  fortunes  of  men. 

Alexander  Pope  and  John  Dryden,  the  poets  who 
followed  Milton,  were  the  masters  of  a  period  in  poe- 
try when  a  curious  weakness  of  the  age  expressed 
itself,  naturally  enough,  in  the  work  of  the  poets.  In 
life  what  we  call  good  manners  are  the  superficial  to- 
ken of  fine  character,  and  when  there  is  no  fine  char- 
acter behind  them,  they  become  false  and  silly,  not 
being  really  good  manners  at  all,  but  imitation  good 
manners.  Now  it  would  be  quite  unjust  to  say  that 
there  was  no  fine  character  in  the  age  of  Pope  and 
Dryden,  or  that  there  is  no  nobility  in  the  work  of 
these  poets  and  their  fellows,  but  it  is  a  fact  that 
people  at  that  time  did  often  make  the  mistake  of  sup- 
posing that  good  manners  were  a  sufficient  occupa- 
tion in  themselves,  instead  of  realising  that  they 
could  never  exist  at  all  unless  they  were  merely  the 
incidental  result  of  fine  character.  And  so  they  often 
gave  themselves  up  to  trivialities  of  life,  and  in  their 
worship  of  good  manners  were  apt  to  get  no  farther 
than  foolish  and  afl^ected  manners,  and  this  confusion 
in  some  measure  reflected  itself  in  the  poetry  of  the 
time.  But  while  we  find  in  the  work  of  such  poets  as 
Pope,  a  mechanical  correctness  of  form  and  a  con- 
ventionality of  thought  that  is  sometimes  tiresome, 
we  must  remember  that  we  have  only  to  make  a  little 
allowance  for  this  to  discover  that  they,  too,  are 
carrying  on  the  great  tradition  of  poetry  with  per- 
sonal and  enduring  genius. 


INTRODUCTION  xxix 

Coming  now  to  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  and  the 
beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century,  to  which  we  are 
led  from  Pope  by  men  such  as  Thomas  Gray  and 
WilHam  Blake  through  a  time  not  very  rich  in  poetry, 
we  have  a  second  great  flowering  of  English  song,  as 
wonderful  almost  as  that  other  one  of  Elizabethan 
days.  Here  we  find  William  Wordsworth,  Samuel 
Taylor  Coleridge,  Lord  Byron,  Robert  Burns,  Percy 
Bysshe  Shelley,  and  John  Keats,  with  others  whose 
names  are  hardly  less  famous.  These  men,  it  need 
not  be  said,  wrote  each  in  his  own  strongly  distinctive 
way,  but  they  all  worked,  under  come  common  im- 
pulse and  without  realising  that  they  were  working 
to  the  same  end,  towards  taking  poetry  back  from 
the  conventional  habits  of  an  artificial  society  to  the 
simplicity  of  nature  and  the  fundamental  emotions 
of  life.  They  belonged  to  an  older  country  than  the 
Elizabethans,  and  the  fierce  tragic  passion  of  the 
earlier  poets  seems  perhaps  to  give  way  to  a  deep  and 
wistful  but  always  splendidly  courageous  tenderness 
in  these  later  men,  but  the  Inspiration  of  poetry  runs 
as  strongly  as  ever  and  there  is  no  weariness,  nothing 
but  magnificently  renewed  vigour. 

And  then  came  the  poets  of  yesterday,  poets  whom 
your  fathers  and  grandfathers  can  remember  as  be- 
ing alive  —  Alfred  Tennyson,  Robert  Browning, 
Matthew  Arnold,  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne, 
William  Morris,  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti,  and  the 
rest,  all  of  them  increasing  the  riches  of  English  poe- 
try down  to  our  own  time.  Nor,  as  you  will  have 
found  in  reading  these  books,  did  the  making  of  poe- 


XXX  INTRODUCTION 

try  stop  yesterday.  It  still  goes  on  to-day,  and  there 
are  poets  writing  now  whose  names  you  will  remem- 
ber when  you  are  old  men  and  women,  as  those  other 
names  have  been  remembered  by  our  fathers  before 
us.  And  when  they  too  have  gone,  poetry  will  find 
new  imaginations  in  which  to  work  its  never-dying 
will. 

John  Drinkwater 


THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 


THE   WAY  OF  POETRY 


FROxM  "SONGS  OF  INNOCENCE" 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild, 
Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee, 

On  a  cloud  I  saw  a  child, 
And  he  laughing  said  to  me: 

'Pipe  a  song  about  a  Lamb!" 
So  I  piped  with  merry  cheer. 
'Piper,  pipe  that  song  again;" 
I  piped:  he  wept  to  hear. 


» 


So 

"Drop  thy  pipe,  thy  happy  pipe; 

Sing  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer: 
So  I  sang  the  same  again. 

While  he  wept  with  joy  to  hear. 

"Piper,  sit  thee  down  and  write 
In  a  book,  that  all  may  read.'* 

So  he  vanish'd  from  my  sight, 
And  I  pluck'd  a  hollow  reed, 


And  I  made  a  rural  pen, 

And  I  stain'd  the  water  clear, 

And  I  wrote  my  happy  songs 
Every  child  may  joy  to  hear. 

William  Blake 


2  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

LITTLE  TROTTY  WAGTAIL 

Little  trotty  wagtail,  he  went  in  the  rain, 

And    twittering,    tottering    sideways    he    ne'er    got 

straight  again. 
He  stooped  to  get  a  worm,  and  looked  up  to  get  a  fly, 
And  then  he  flew  away  ere  his  feathers  they  were 

dry. 

Little  trotty  wagtail,  he  waddled  in  the  mud, 

And  left  his  little  footmarks,  trample  where  he  would. 

He  waddled  in  the  water-pudge,  and  waggle  went  his 

tail. 
And  chirrupt  up  his  wings  to  dry  upon  the  garden 

rail. 

Little  trotty  wagtail,  you  nimble  all  about, 

And  in  the  dimpling  water-pudge  you  waddle  in  and 

out; 
Your  home  is  nigh  at  hand,  and  in  the  warm  pig-stye, 
So,  little  Master  Wagtail,  I'll  bid  you  a  good-bye. 

John  Clare 

IN  THE  POPPY  FIELD 

Mad  Patsy  said,  he  said  to  me, 
That  every  morning  he  could  see 
An  angel  walking  on  the  sky; 
Across  the  sunny  skies  of  morn 
He  threw  great  handfuls  far  and  nigh 
Of  poppy  seed  among  the  corn; 


ON  A  FAVOURITE  CAT  1 

And  then,  he  said,  the  angels  run 
To  see  the  poppies  in  the  sun. 

A  poppy  is  a  devil  weed, 

I  said  to  him  —  he  disagreed: 

He  said  the  devil  had  no  hand 

In  spreading  flowers  tall  and  fair 

Through  corn  and  rye  and  meadow  land, 

By  garth  and  barrow  everywhere: 

The  devil  has  not  any  flower, 

But  only  money  in  his  power. 

And  then  he  stretched  out  in  the  sun 
And  rolled  upon  his  back  for  fun: 
He  kicked  his  legs  and  roared  for  joy 
Because  the  sun  was  shining  down, 
He  said  he  was  a  little  boy 
And  would  not  work  for  any  clown: 
He  ran  and  laughed  behind  a  bee. 
And  danced  for  very  ecstasy. 

James  Stephens 

ON  A  FAVOURITE  CAT,  DROWNED  IN  A 
TUB  OF  GOLDFISHES 

*T  WAS  on  a  lofty  vase's  side. 
Where  China's  gayest  art  had  dyed 

The  azure  flowers  that  blow, 
Demurest  of  the  tabby  kind, 
The  pensive  Selima,  reclined, 

Gazed  on  the  lake  below. 


THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Her  conscious  tail  her  joy  declared: 
The  fair  round  face,  the  snowy  beard, 

The  velvet  of  her  paws, 
Her  coat  that  with  the  tortoise  vies, 
Her  ears  of  jet,  and  emerald  eyes, 

She  saw;  and  purr'd  applause. 

Still  had  she  gazed,  but  'midst  the  tide 
Two  angel  forms  were  seen  to  glide. 

The  Genii  of  the  stream: 
Their  scaly  armour's  Tyrian  hue 
Through  richest  purple  to  the  view 

Betray'd  a  golden  gleam. 

The  hapless  Nymph  with  wonder  saw: 
A  whisker  first,  and  then  a  claw 

With  many  an  ardent  wish 
She  stretch'd,  in  vain,  to  reach  the  prize 
What  female  heart  can  gold  despise? 

What  Cat's  averse  to  Fish? 

Presumptuous  maid!  with  looks  intent 
Again  she  stretch'd,  again  she  bent. 

Nor  knew  the  gulf  between  — 
Malignant  Fate  sat  by  and  smiled  — 
The  slippery  verge  her  feet  beguiled; 

She  tumbled  headlong  in! 

Eight  times  emerging  from  the  flood 
She  mew'd  to  every  watery  God 


ELEGY  ON  DEATH  OF  A  M.\D  DOG 

Some  speedy  aid  to  send:  — 
No  Dolphin  came,  no  Nereid  stirr'd, 
Nor  cruel  Tom  nor  Susan  heard  — 

A  favourite  has  no  friend! 

From  hence,  ye  Beauties,  undeceived, 
Know  one  false  step  is  ne'er  retrieved, 

And  be  with  caution  bold: 
Not  all  that  tempts  your  wandering  eyes 
And  heedless  hearts,  is  lawful  prize, 

Nor  all  that  glisters,  gold! 

Thomas  Gray 

AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MAD 

DOG 

Good  people  all,  of  every  sort 

Give  ear  unto  my  song; 
And  if  you  find  it  wondrous  short. 

It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

^      In  Islington  there  was  a  man, 

Of  whom  the  world  might  say, 
That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran 
Whene'er  he  went  to  pray. 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 
To  comfort  friends  and  foes; 

The  naked  every  day  he  clad. 
When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 


THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found, 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 
Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound, 

And  curs  of  low  degree. 

This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends; 

But  when  a  pique  began. 
The  dog,  to  gain  his  private  ends, 

Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 

Around  from  all  the  neighbouring  streets 
The  wondering  neighbours  ran. 

And  swore  the  d9g  had  lost  his  wits. 
To  bite  so  good  a  man. 

The  wound  it  seem'd  both  sore  and  sad 

To  every  Christian  eye: 
And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad. 

They  swore  the  man  would  die. 

But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light, 
That  show'd  the  rogues  they  lied. 

The  man  recover'd  of  the  bite, 
The  dog  it  was  that  died. 

Oliver  Goldsmith 

TO  DAFFODILS 

Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soon: 
As  yet  the  early-rising  Sun 

Has  not  attain'd  his  noon. 


RAPTURES 

Stay,  stay, 
Until  the  hasting  day 

Has  run 
But  to  the  even-song; 
And,  having  pray'd  together,  we 
Will  go  with  you  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  you. 

We  have  as  short  a  Spring; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay 
As  you,  or  anything. 

We  die. 
As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 

Away 
Like  to  the  Summer's  rain; 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew, 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 

Robert  Herrick 


RAPTURES 

Sing  for  the  sun  your  lyric,  lark 

Of  twice  ten  thousand  notes; 
Sing  for  the  moon,  you  nightingales, 

Whose  light  shall  kiss  your  throats; 
Sing,  sparrows,  for  the  soft  warm  rain, 

To  wet  your  feathers  tii rough; 
And,  when  a  rainbow  's  in  the  sky, 

Sing  you,  cuckoo  —  "Cuckoo!" 


8  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Sing  for  your  five  blue  eggs,  fond  thrush, 

By  many  a  leaf  concealed; 
You  starlings,  wrens,  and  blackbirds  sing 

In  every  wood  and  field: 
While  I,  who  fail  to  give  my  love 

Long  raptures  twice  as  fine, 
Will  for  her  beauty  breathe  this  one  — 

A  sigh,  that's  more  divine. 

W.  H.  Davies 

SONG 

When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail, 

And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall. 
And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail; 

When  blood  is  nipt,  and  ways  be  foul, 

Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl 
Tu  whoo ! 

Tuwhit!  tuwhoo!  A  merry  note! 

While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot.  \ 

When  all  aloud  the  wind  doth  blow. 
And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saw, 

And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow. 
And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw; 

When  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl  — 

Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl 
Tuwhoo! 

Tuwhit!  tuwhoo!  A  merry  note! 

While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

William  Shakespeare 


TO  THE  CUCKOO 

TO  THE  CUCKOO 

O  BLITHE  New-comer!   I  have  heard, 

I  hear  thee  and  rejoice: 
O  Cuckoo!  shall  I  call  thee  Bird, 

Or  but  a  wandering  Voice? 

While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass 

Thy  twofold  shout  I  hear; 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 

At  once  far  off  and  near. 

Though  babbling  only  to  the  Vale 
Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers, 

Thou  bringest  unto  me  a  tale 
Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  Spring! 

Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 
No  bird,  but  an  Invisible  thing, 

A  voice,  a  mystery; 

The  same  whom  in  my  schoolboy  days 

I  llsten'd  to;  that  Cry 
Which  made  me  look  a  thousand  ways 

In  bush,  and  tree,  and  sky. 

To  seek  thee  did  I  often  rove 

Through  woods  and  on  the  green; 

And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love; 
Still  longed  for,  never  seen. 


10  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet; 

Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  I  do  beget 

That  golden  time  again, 

O  blessed  Bird!  the  earth  we  pace 

Again  appears  to  be 
An  unsubstantial,  fairy  place, 

That  is  fit  home  for  Thee. 

William  Wordsworth 

STUPIDITY  STREET 

I  SAW  with  open  eyes 
Singing  birds  sweet 
Sold  in  the  shops 
For  the  people  to  eat, 
Sold  in  the  shops  of 
Stupidity  Street. 

I  saw  in  vision 
The  worm  in  the  wheat, 
And  in  the  shops  nothing 
For  people  to  eat; 
Nothing  for  sale  in 
Stupidity  Street. 

Ralph  Hodgson 

BLACKBIRD 

He  comes  on  chosen  evenings, 
My  blackbird  bountiful,  and  sings 


BEAUTIFUL  MEALS  II 

Over  the  gardens  of  the  town 

Just  at  the  hour  the  sun  goes  down. 

His  flight  across  the  chimneys  thick, 

By  some  divine  arithmetic, 

Comes  to  his  customary  stack, 

And  couches  there  his  plumage  black. 

And  there  he  Hfts  his  yellow  bill 

Kindled  against  the  sunset,  till 

These  suburbs  are  like  Dymock  woods 

Where  music  has  her  solitudes. 

And  while  he  mocks  the  winter's  wrong 

Rapt  on  his  pinnacle  of  song, 

Figured  above  our  garden  plots 

Those  are  celestial  chimney-pots. 

John  Drinkwater 

BEAUTIFUL  MEALS 

How  nice  it  is  to  eat! 

All  creatures  love  it  so, 

That  they  who  first  did  spread, 

Ere  breaking  bread, 

A  cloth  like  level  snow, 

Were  right,  I  know. 

And  they  were  wise  and  sweet 
Who,  glad  that  meats  taste  good, 
Used  speech  in  an  arch  style, 
And  oft  would  smile 
To  raise  the  cheerful  mood, 
While  at  their  food. 


12  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

And  those  who  first,  so  neat, 
Placed  fork  and  knife  quite  straight, 
The  glass  on  the  right  hand; 
And  all,  as  planned, 
Each  day  set  round  the  plate,  — 
Be  their  praise  great! 

For  then,  their  hearts  being  light, ' 

They  plucked  hedge-posies  bright  — 

Flowers  who,  their  scent  being  sweet. 

Give  nose  and  eye  a  treat: 

'T  was  they,  my  heart  can  tell. 

Not  eating  fast  but  well, 

Who  wove  the  spell 

Which  finds  me  every  day, 

And  makes  each  meal-time  gay; 

I  know  't  was  they. 

T.  Sturge  Moore 

AUTUMN:  A  DIRGE 

The  warm  sun  is  failing,  the  bleak  wind  is  wailing, 
The  bare  boughs  are  sighing,  the  pale  flowers  are 
dying. 

And  the  year 
On  the  earth  her  death-bed,  in  a  shroud  of  leaves 
dead. 
Is  lying. 
Come,  Months,  come  away, 
From  November  to  May, 
In  your  saddest  array; 


THE  SANDS  OF  DEE  13 

Follow  the  bier 
Of  the  dead  cold  year, 
And  like  dim  shadows  watch  by  her  sepulchre. 

The  chill  rain  is  falling,  the  nipped  worm  is  crawling, 
The  rivers  are  swelling,  the  thunder  is  knelling 

For  the  year; 
The  blithe  swallows  are  flown,  and  the  lizards  each 
gone 

To  his  dwelling; 
Come,  Months,  come  away; 
Put  on  white,  black,  and  gray; 
Let  your  light  sisters  play  — 
Ye,  follow  the  bier 
Of  the  dead  cold  year, 
And  make  her  grave  green  with  tear  on  tear. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

THE  SANDS  OF  DEE 

"O  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee;" 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank  with  foam, 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  western  tide  crept  up  along  the  sand. 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand. 
And  round  and  round  the  sand. 
As  far  as  eye  could  see. 


14  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

The  rolling  mist  came  down  and  hid  the  land; 
And  never  home  came  she. 

"Oh!  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair^ 
A  tress  of  golden  hair, 
A  drowned  maiden's  hair 
Above  the  nets  at  sea? 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee." 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam, 
The  cruel  crawling  foam, 
The  cruel  hungry  foam, 
To  her  grave  beside  the  sea: 
But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee. 

Charles  Kingsley 

AND  SHALL  TRELAWNY  DIE? 

A  GOOD  sword  and  a  trusty  hand! 

A  merry  heart  and  true! 
King  James's  men  shall  understand 

What  Cornish  lads  can  do. 

And  have  they  fixed  the  where  and  when? 

And  shall  Trelawny  die? 
Here's  twenty  thousand  Cornish  men 

Will  know  the  reason  why! 

Out  spake  their  captain  brave  and  bold, 
A  merry  wight  was  he: 


WEEL  MAY  THE  KEEL  ROW  15 

"If  London  Tower  were  Michael's  hold. 
We'll  set  Trelawny  free! 

**We'll  cross  the  Tamar,  land  to  land, 

The  Severn  is  no  stay,  — 
With  'one  and  all,'  and  hand  in  hand. 

And  who  shall  bid  us  nay? 

"And  when  we  come  to  London  Wall, 

A  pleasant  sight  to  view, 
Come  forth!   Come  forth,  ye  cowards  all, 

Here's  men  as  good  as  you. 

*'Trelawny  he's  in  keep  and  hold, 

Trelawny  he  may  die;  — 
But  here's  twenty  thousand  Cornish  bold 

Will  know  the  reason  why!" 

Robert  Stephen  Hawker 

WEEL  MAY  THE  KEEL  ROW 

As  I  came  thro'  Sandgate, 
Thro'  Sandgate,  thro'  Sandgate, 
As  I  came  thro'  Sandgate 

I  heard  a  lassie  sing, 
O  weel  may  the  keel  row, 
The  keel  row,  the  keel  row, 
O  weel  may  the  keel  row, 

That  my  laddie's  in. 

O  wha's  like  my  Johnny, 

Sae  leith,  sae  blythe,  sae  bonny? 


i6  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

He's  foremost  among  the  mony 

Keel  lads  o'  coaly  Tyne: 
He'll  set  and  row  so  tightly, 
Or  in  the  dance  —  so  sprightly  — 
He'll  cut  and  shuffle  sightly; 

'T  is  true,  —  were  he  not  mine. 

He  wears  a  blue  bonnet, 
Blue  bonnet,  blue  bonnet; 
He  wears  a  blue  bonnet,  — 

And  a  dimple  in  his  chin: 
And  weel  may  the  keel  row, 
The  keel  row,  the  keel  row; 
And  weel  may  the  keel  row, 

That  my  laddie's  in.  Anonymous 

THE  BEGGAR  MAID 

Her  arms  across  her  breast  she  laid; 

She  was  more  fair  than  words  can  say: 
Bare-footed  came  the  beggar  maid 

Before  the  king  Cophetua. 
In  robe  and  crown  the  king  stept  down, 

To  meet  and  greet  her  on  her  way: 
"It  is  no  wonder,"  said  the  lords, 

"She  is  more  beautiful  than  day.** 

As  shines  the  moon  in  clouded  skies, 
•     She  in  her  poor  attire  was  seen: 
One  praised  her  ankles,  one  her  eyes. 
One  her  dark  hair  and  lovesome  mien. 


JACK  AND  JOAN  17 

So  sweet  a  face,  such  angel  grace, 

In  all  that  land  had  never  been: 
Cophetua  sware  a  royal  oath: 

"This  beggar  maid  shall  be  my  queen!" 

Alfred  Tennyson 


JACK  AND  JOAN 

Jack  and  Joan,  they  think  no  ill, 

But  loving  live,  and  merry  still; 

Do  their  weekdays'  work,  and  pray 

Devoutly  on  the  holy  day: 

Skip  and  trip  it  on  the  green. 

And  help  to  choose  the  Summer  Queen: 

Lash  out,  at  a  country  feast. 

Their  silver  penny  with  the  best. 

\ 

Well  can  they  judge  of  nappy  ale, 

And  tell  at  large  a  winter  tale; 

Climb  up  to  the  apple  loft. 

And  turn  the  crabs  till  they  be  soft. 

Tib  is  all  the  father's  joy, 

And  little  Tom  the  mother's  boy. 

All  their  pleasure  is  content; 

And  care,  to  pay  their  yearly  rent. 

Joan  can  call  by  name  her  cows. 
And  deck  her  windows  with  green  boughs; 
She  can  wreaths  and  tuttyes  make. 
And  trim  «vith  plums  a  bridal  cake. 


x8  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Jack  knows  what  brings  gain  or  loss; 
And  his  long  flail  can  stoutly  toss: 
Makes  the  hedge  which  others  break; 
And  ever  thinks  what  he  doth  speak. 

Now,  you  courtly  dames  and  knights, 
That  study  only  strange  delights; 
Though  you  scorn  the  homespun  gray. 
And  revel  in  your  rich  array: 
Though  your  tongues  dissemble  deep. 
And  can  your  heads  frorh  danger  keep; 
Yet,  for  all  your  pomp  and  train, 
Securer  lives  the  silly  swain. 

Thomas  Campion 


WIDDICOMBE  FAIR 

1 
"Tom  Pearse,  Tom  Pearse,  lend  me  your  gray  mare, 

All  along,  down  along,  out  along,  lee. 
For  I  want  for  to  go  to  Widdicombe  Fair, 

Wi'  Bill  Brewer,  Jan  Stewer,  Peter  Gurney,  Peter 
Davy, 

Dan'l  Whiddon,  Harry  Hawk, 
Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobbleigh  and  all." 

Chorus  —  Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobbleigh  and  all. 

II 

"And  when  shall  I  see  again  my  gray  mare?"  — 
All  along,  down  along,  out  along,  lee. 


WIDDICOMBE  FAIR  19 

"By  Friday  soon,  or  Saturday  noon, 

Wi'  Bill  Brewer,  Jan  Stewer,  Peter  Gurney,  Peter 
Davy, 

Dan'l  Whiddon,  Harry  Hawk, 
Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobbleigh  and  all." 

Chorus  —  Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobbleigh  and  all. 

Ill 

Then  Friday  came  and  Saturday  noon, 
All  along,  down  along,  out  along,  lee. 
But  Tom  Pearse's  old  mare  hath  not  trotted  home, 
Wi'  Bill  Brewer,  Jan  Stewer,  Peter  Gurney,  Peter 
Davy, 

Dan'l  Whiddon,  Harry  Hawk, 
Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobbleigh  and  all. 

Chorus  —  Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobbleigh  and  all. 

IV 

So  Tom  Pearse  he  got  up  to  the  top  o'  the  hill, 

All  along,  down  along,  out  along,  lee. 
And  he  sees  his  old  mare  down  a-making  her  will, 
Wi'  Bill  Brewer,  Jan  Stewer,  Peter  Gurney,  Peter 
Davy, 

Dan'l  Whiddon,  Harry  Hawk, 
Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobbleigh  and  all. 

Chorus  —  Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobbleigh  and  all. 

V 

So  Tom  Pearse's  old  mare  her  took  sick  and  her  died, 
All  along,  down  along,  out  along,  lee. 


20  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY, 

And  Tom  he  sat  down  on  a  stone,  and  he  cried 
Wi'  Bill  Brewer,  Jan  Stewer,  Peter  Gurney,  Peter 
Davy, 

Dan'l  Whiddon,  Harry  Hawk, 
Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobbleigh  and  all. 

Chorus  —  Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobbleigh  and  all. 

VI 

But  this  is  n't  the  end  o'  this  shocking  affair, 

All  along,  down  along,  out  along,  lee. 
Nor,  though  they  be  dead,  of  the  horrid  career 
Of  Bill  Brewer,  Jan  Stewer,  Peter  Gurney,  Peter 
Davy, 

Dan'l  Whiddon,  Harry  Hawk, 
Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobbleigh  and  all. 

Chorus  —  Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobbleigh  and  all. 

VII 

When  the  wind  whistles  cold  on  the  moor  of  a  night, 

All  along,  down  along,  out  along,  lee. 
Tom  Pearse's  old  mare  doth  appear,  gashly  white, 
Wi'  Bill  Brewer,  Jan  Stewer,  Peter  Gurney,  Peter 
Davy, 

Dan'l  Whiddon,  Harry  Hawk, 
Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobbleigh  and  all. 

Chorus  —  Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobbleigh  and  all. 

VIII 

And  all  the  long  night  be  heard  skirling  and  groans, 
All  along,  down  along,  out  along,  lee. 


A  WISH,  21 

From  Tom  Pearse's  old  mare  in  her  rattling  bones, 
And  from  Bill  Brewer,  Jan  Stewer,  Peter  Gurney, 
Peter  Davy, 

Dan'l  Whiddon,  Harry  Hawk, 
Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobbleigh  and  all. 

Chorus  —  Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobbleigh  and  all. 

Old  Ballad 

A  WISH 

Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill; 
A  bee-hive's  hum  shall  soothe  my  ear; 
A  willowy  brook,  that  turns  a  mill. 
With  many  a  fall  shall  linger  near. 

The  swallow,  oft,  beneath  my  thatch 
Shall  twitter  from  her  clay-built  nest; 
Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  lift  the  latch, 
And  share  my  meal,  a  welcome  guest. 

Around  my  ivied  porch  shall  spring 
Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  the  dew; 
And  Lucy,  at  her  wheel,  shall  sing 
In  russet-gown  and  apron  blue. 

The  village-church,  among  the  trees, 
Where  first  our  marriage-vows  were  given, 
With  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze, 
And  point  with  taper  spire  to  heaven. 

Samuel  Rogers 


S2  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

THE  QUIET  LIFE 

Happy  the  man  whose  wish  and  care 

A  few  paternal  acres  bound, 
Content  to  breathe  his  native  air 
In  his  own  ground. 

Whose  herds  with  milk,  whose  fields  with  bread, 

Whose  flocks  supply  him  with  attire; 
Whose  trees  in  summer  yield  him  shade, 
In  winter  fire. 

Blest,  who  can  unconcern'dly  find 

Hours,  days,  and  years  slide  soft  away 
In  health  of  body,  peace  of  mind, 
Quiet  by  day; 

Sound  sleep  by  night;  study  ana  ease 

Together  mix'd;  sweet  recreation; 
And  innocence,  which  most  does  please 
With  meditation. 

Thus  let  me  live,  unseen,  unknown; 

Thus  unlamented  let  me  die; 
Steal  from  the  world,  and  not  a  stone 
Tell  where  I  lie. 

Alexander  Pope 


ON  MAY  MORNING  43 

HOME-THOUGHTS,  FROM  ABROAD 

Oh,  to  be  in  England  now  that  April's  there, 
And  whoever  wakes  in  England  sees,  some  morning, 
unaware, 

That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brushwood  sheaf 
Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf, 
While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough 
In  England  —  now! 

And  after  April,  when  May  follows, 
And  the  whitethroat  builds,  and  all  the  swallows! 
Hark,  where  my  blossomed  pear-tree  in  the  hedge 

Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover 
Blossoms  and  dewdrops  —  at  the  bent  spray's 
edge  — 
That's  the  wise  thrush;  he  sings  each  song 
twice  over, 
Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 

The  first  fine  careless  rapture! 
And  though  the  fields  look  rough  with  hoary  dew, 
All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 
The  buttercups,  the  little  children's  dower 
—  Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon-flower! 

Robert  Browning 


ON  MAY  MORNING 

Now  the  bright  morning  star,  day's  harbinger, 
Comes  dancing  from  the  East,  and  leads  with  her 


24  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

The  flowery  May,  who  from  her  green  lap  throws 
The  yellow  cowslip,  and  the  pale  primrose. 

Hail,  bounteous  May!  that  dost  inspire 

Mirth,  and  youth,  and  warm  desire; 

Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dressing; 

Hill  and  dale  doth  boast  thy  blessing. 
Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  song, 
And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee  long. 

John  Milton 

FROM  "STRANGE  MEETINGS" 

The  stars  must  make  an  awful  noise 
In  whirling  round  the  sky; 
Yet  somehow  I  can't  even  hear 
Their  loudest  song  or  sigh. 

So  it  is  wonderful  to  think 

One  blackbird  can  outsing 

The  voice  of  all  the  swarming  stars 

On  any  day  in  Spring. 

Harold  Monro 

THE  BROOK 

I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 

I  make  a  sudden  sally 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 
Or  slip  between  the  ridges, 


THE  BROOK  as 

By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 
And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 
I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 

I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 

By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 
And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 

With  willow-weed  and  mallow, 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river. 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 

With  here  a  blossom  sailing 
And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 

And  here  and  there  a  grayling. 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 
Upon  me,  as  I  travel 


w6  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 
Above  the  golden  gravel, 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows; 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 

In  brambly  wildernesses; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars; 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

Alfred  Tennyson 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  AN  OLD  BED  27 

DREAM-PEDLARY 

If  there  were  dreams  to  sell. 

What  would  you  buy? 
Some  cost  a  passing  bell; 

Some  a  light  sigh, 
That  shakes  from  Life's  fresh  crown 
Only  a  rose-leaf  down. 
If  there  were  dreams  to  sell. 
Merry  and  sad  to  tell, 
And  the  crier  rang  the  bell. 

What  would  you  buy? 

A  cottage  lone  and  still, 

With  bowers  nigh, 
Shadowy,  my  woes  to  still, 

Until  I  die. 
Such  pearl  from  Life's  fresh  crown 
Fain  would  I  shake  me  down, 
Were  dreams  to  have  at  will, 
This  would  best  heal  my  ill, 

This  would  I  buy. 

Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  AN  OLD  BED 

The  wind's  on  the  wold 
And  the  night  is  a-cold, 
And  Thames  runs  chill 
*Twiit  mead  and  \iill. 


18  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

But  kind  and  dear 

Is  the  old  house  here 

And  my  heart  is  warm 

'Midst  winter's  harm.   ■ 

Rest  then  and  rest, 

And  think  of  the  best 

'Twixt  summer  and  spring, 

When  all  birds  sing 

In  the  town  of  the  tree,. 

And  ye  lie  in  me 

And  scarce  dare  move 

Lest  the  earth  and  its  love 

Should  fade  away 

Ere  the  full  of  the  day. 

I  am  old  and  have  seen 

Many  things  that  have  been; 

Both  grief  and  peace 

And  wane  and  increase. 

No  tale  I  tell 

Of  ill  or  well 

But  this  I  say; 

Night  treadeth  on  day, 

And  for  worst  or  best 

Right  good  is  rest. 

William  Morris 


A  LETTER 

My  noble,  lovely,  little  Peggy, 
Let  this  my  First  Epistle  beg  ye, 


FROM  IN  MEMORIAM  29 

At  dawn  of  mom,  and  close  of  even, 
To  lift  your  heart  and  hands  to  Heaven. 
In  double  duty,  say  your  prayer: 
Our  Father  first,  then  Notre  Pere. 

And,  dearest  child,  along  the  day, 
In  every  thing  you  do  and  say. 
Obey  and  please  my  lord  and  lady, 
So  God  shall  love  and  angels  aid  ye. 

If  to  these  precepts  you  attend, 
No  second  letter  need  I  send. 
And  so  I  rest  your  constant  friend. 

Matthew  Prior 

FROM  "IN  MEMORIAM" 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky. 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light: 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new, 

Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow: 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind. 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 


30  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause, 

And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife;' 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times; 
Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes, 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood. 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite; 
Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 
,  Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease; 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold; 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 

The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

Alfred  Tennyson 


THE  BELLS  OF  LONDON  31 

NURSERY  RHYMES 
THE  BELLS  OF  LONDON 

Gay  go  up  and  gay  go  down, 
To  ring  the  bells  of  London  town. 

Halfpence  and  farthings, 

Say  the  bells  of  St,  Martin's. 
Oranges  and  lemons, 
Say  the  bells  of  St.  Clement's. 

Pancakes  and  fritters, 

Say  the  bells  of  St.  Peter's. 
Two  sticks  and  an  apple. 
Say  the  bells  of  Whitechapel. 

Kettles  and  pans, 

Say  the  bells  of  St.  Ann's. 

You  owe  me  ten  shillings, 

Say  the  bells  of  St.  Helen's. 
When  will  you  pay  me? 
Say  the  bells  of  Old  Bailey, 

When  I  grow  rich. 

Say  the  bells  of  Shoreditch. 
Pray  when  will  that  be.'' 
Say  the  bells  of  Stepney. 

I  am  sure  I  don't  know, 

Says  the  great  bell  of  Bow. 


32  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

JOHNNY  SHALL  HAVE  A  NEW  BONNET 

Johnny  shall  have  a  new  bonnet, 
And  Johnny  shall  go  to  the  fair, 

And  Johnny  shall  have  a  blue  ribbon 
To  tie  up  his  bonny  brown  hair. 

And  why  may  not  I  love  Johnny? 

And  why  may  not  Johnny  love  me? 
And  why  may  not  I  love  Johnny 

As  well  as  another  body? 

And  here's  a  leg  for  a  stocking, 
And  here's  a  leg  for  a  shoe; 

And  he  has  a  kiss  for  his  daddy. 
And  two  for  his  mammy,  I  trow. 

And  why  may  not  I  love  Johnny? 

And  why  may  not  Johnny  love  me? 
And  why  may  not  I  love  Johnny 

As  well  as  another  body? 

THE  FROG  HE  WOULD  A-WOOING  RIDE 

It  was  the  frog  in  the  well, 
Humble  dum,  humble  dum, 

And  the  merry  mouse  in  the  mill, 
Tweedle,  tweedle,  twino. 

The  frog  would  a-wooing  ride, 
Humble  dum,  humble  dum, 


THE  FROG  HE  WOULD  A-WOOING  RIDE   33 

Sword  and  buckler  by  his  side, 
Tweedle,  tweedle,  twino. 

When  upon  his  high  horse  set, 

Humble  dum,  humble  dum, 
His  boots  they  shone  as  black  as  jet, 

Tweedle,  tweedle,  twino. 

When  he  came  to  the  merry  mill  pin, 
Lady  A'louse  beene  you  within? 
Then  came  out  the  dusty  mouse, 
I  am  lady  of  this  housej 

Hast  thou  any  mind  of  me? 
I  have  e'en  great  mind  of  thee. 
Who  shall  this  marriage  make? 
Our  lord,  which  is  the  rat. 

What  shall  we  have  to  our  supper? 
Three  beans  in  a  pound  of  butter. 
But,  when  supper  they  were  at, 
The  frog,  the  mouse,  and  e'en  the  rat, 

Then  came  in  Tib,  our  cat. 

And  caught  the  mouse  e'en  by  the  back. 

Then  did  they  separate: 

The  frog  leapt  on  the  floor  so  flat; 

Then  came  in  Dick,  our  drake, 
And  drew  the  frog  e'en  to  the  lake, 


34  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

The  rat  he  ran  up  the  wall, 
And  so  the  company  parted  all. 


SIMPLE  SIMON 

Simple  Simon  met  a  pieman 

Going  to  the  fair; 
Says  Simple  Simon  to  the  pieman, 

"Let  me  taste  your  ware." 

Says  the  pieman  to  Simple  Simon, 
"Show  me  first  your  penny"; 

Says  Simple  Simon  to  the  pieman, 
"Indeed  I  have  not  any." 

Simple  Simon  went  a-fishing 

For  to  catch  a  whale; 
All  the  water  he  had  got 

Was  in  his  mother's  pail. 

Simple  Simon  went  to  look 
If  plums  grew  on  a  thistle; 

He  pricked  his  fingers  very  much 
Which  made  poor  Simon  whistle. 

I  HAD  A  LITTLE  PONY 

I  HAD  a  little  pony; 

His  name  was  Dapple-grajr, 
I  lent  him  to  a  lady, 

To  ride  a  mile  away. 


THERE  WAS  A  MAN  OF  NEWINGTON      35 

She  whipped  him,  she  slashed  him, 
She  rode  him  through  the  mire; 

I  would  not  lend  my  pony  now 
For  all  the  lady's  hire. 

I  HAD  A  LITTLE  HOBBY-HORSE 

I  HAD  a  little  hobby-horse, 

And  it  was  dapple  gray; 
Its  head  was  made  of  peastraw, 

Its  tail  was  made  of  hay. 

I  sold  it  to  an  old  woman 

For  a  copper  groat; 
And  I'll  not  sing  my  song  again 

Without  a  new  coat. 

THERE  WAS  A  CROOKED  MAN 

There  was  a  crooked  man,  and  he  went  a  crooked 

mile, 
He  found  a  crooked  sixpence  against  a  crooked  stile: 
He  bought  a  crooked  cat,  which  caught  a  crooked 

mouse, 
And  they  all  lived  together  in  a  little  crooked  house. 

THERE  WAS  A  MAN  OF  NEWINGTON 

There  was  a  man  of  Newington, 

And  he  was  wondrous  wise, 
He  jumped  into  a  quickset  hedge, 

And  scratched  out  both  his  eyes: 


36  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

But  when  he  saw  his  eyes  were  out. 
With  all  his  might  and  main 

He  jumped  into  another  hedge, 
And  scratched  them  in  again. 


I  HAD  A  LITTLE  NUT-TREE 

I  HAD  a  little  nut-tree,  nothing  would  it  bear 

But  a  silver  nutmeg  and  a  golden  pear; 

The  King  of  Spain's  daughter  came  to  visit  me, 

And  all  was  because  of  my  little  nut-tree. 

I  skipped  over  water,  I  danced  over  sea. 

And  all  the  birds  in  the  air  could  n't  catch  me. 


OLD  KING  COLE 

Old  King  Cole 

Was  a  merry  old  soul, 

And  a  merry  old  soul  was  he; 

He  called  for  his  pipe, 

And  he  called  for  his  bowl, 

And  he  called  for  his  fiddlers  three. 

Every  fiddler  he  had  a  fiddle. 

And  a  very  fine  fiddle  had  he; 

Twee  tweedle  dee,  tweedle  dee,  went  the  fiddlers. 

Oh,  there's  none  so  rare 

As  can  compare 
With  King  Cole  and  his  fiddlers  three. 


MY  PRETTY  MAID  37 

THE  NORTH  WIND  DOTH  BLOW 

The  north  wind  doth  blow, 
And  we  shall  have  snow, 
And  what  will  poor  Robin  do  then,  poor  thing? 

He'll  sit  in  a  barn, 
And  keep  himself  warm. 
And  hide  his  head  under  his  wing,  poor  thing. 


WHERE  ARE  YOU  GOING,  MY  PRETTY 

MAID 

Where  are  you  going,  my  pretty  maid. 
With  your  rosy  cheeks  and  golden  hair? 

"I'm  going  a-milking,  sir,"  she  said; 

The  strawberry-leaves  make  maidens  fair. 

Shall  I  go  with  you,  my  pretty  maid, 
With  your  rosy  cheeks  and  golden  hair? 

"Yes,  if  you  please,  kind  sir,"  she  said; 
The  strawberry-leaves  make  maidens  fair. 

W^at  is  your  father,  my  pretty  maid. 
With  your  rosy  cheeks  and  golden  hair? 

"My  father's  a  farmer,  sir,"  she  said; 

The  strawberry-leaves  make  maidens  fair. 

What  is  your  fortune,  my  pretty  maid. 
With  your  rosy  checks  and  golden  hair? 


14  34H4 


38  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

"My  face  is  my  fortune,  sir,"  she  said; 
The  strawberry-leaves  make  maidens  fair. 

Then  I  won't  have  you,  my  pretty  maid, 
With  your  rosy  cheelcs  and  golden  hair. 

**Nobody  asked  you,  sir,"  she  said; 

The  strawberry-leaves  make  maidens  fair. 

A  FROG  HE  WOULD  A-WOOING  GO 

A  FROG  he  would  a-wooing  go, 

Heigho,  says  Rowley, 
Whether  his  mother  would  let  him  or  no. 

With  a  rowley  powley,  gammon,  and  spinach, 

Heigho,  says  Anthony  Rowley! 

So  off  he  set  with  his  opera  hat, 

Heigho,  says  Rowley, 
And  on  the  road  he  met  with  a  rat. 

With  a  rowley  powley,  gammon,  and  spinach, 

Heigho,  says  Anthony  Rowley! 

"Pray,  Mr.  Rat,  will  you  go  with  me, 

Heigho,  says  Rowley, 
Kind  Mrs.  Mousey  for  to  see?" 

With  a  rowley  powley,  gammon,  and  spinach, 

Heigho,  says  Anthony  Rowley! 

When  they  came  to  the  door  of  Mousey's  hall, 

Heigho,  says  Rowley, 
They  gave  a  loud  knock  and  they  gave  a  loud  call. 


A  FROG  HE  WOULD  A-WOOING  GO         39 

With  a  rowley  powley,  gammon,  and  spinach, 
Heigho,  says  Anthony  Rowley! 

"Pray,  Mrs.  Mouse,  are  you  within?" 

Heigho,  says  Rowley. 
"Oh,  yes,  kind  sirs,  I'm  sitting  to  spin." 

With  a  rowley  powley,  gammon,  and  spinach, 

Heigho,  says  Anthony  Rowley! 

"Pray,  Mrs.  Mouse,'wiII  you  give  us  some  beer.'' 

Heigho,  says  Rowley, 
For  Froggy  and  I  are  fond  of  good  cheer." 

With  a  rowley  powley,  gammon,  and  spinach, 

Heigho,  says  Anthony  Rowley! 

"Pray,  Mr.  Frog,  will  you  give  us  a  song? 

Heigho,  says  Rowley, 
But  let  it  be  something  that's  not  very  long.' 

With  a  rowley  powley,  gammon,  and  spinach, 

Heigho,  says  Anthony  Rowley! 

"Indeed,  Mrs.  Mouse,"  replied  the  Frog, 

Heigho,  says  Rowley, 
"A  cold  has  made  me  as  hoarse  as  a  dog." 

With  a  rowley  powley,  gammon,  and  spinach, 

Heigho,  says  Anthony  Rowley! 

"Since  you  have  caught  cold,  Mr.  Frog,"  Mousey 
said, 
Heigho,  says  Rowley, 
"I'll  sing  you  a  song  that  I  have  just  made. 


»f 


40  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

With  a  rowley  powley,  gammon,  and  spinach, 
Heigho,  says  Anthony  Rowley! 

But  while  they  were  all  a-merrymaking, 

Heigho,  says  Rowley, 
A  cat  and  her  kittens  came  tumbling  in. 

With  a  rowley  powley,  gammon,  and  spinach, 

Heigho,  says  Anthony  Rowley! 

The  cat  she  seized  the  rat  by  the  crown; 

Heigho,  says  Rowley; 
The  kittens  they  pulled  the  little  mouse  down. 

With  a  rowley  powley,  gammon,  and  spinach, 

Heigho,  says  Anthony  Rowley! 

This  put  Mr.  Frog  in  a  terrible  fright; 

Heigho,  says  Rowley; 
He  took  up  his  hat,  and  he  wished  them  good-night, 

With  a  rowley  powley,  gammon,  and  spinach, 

Heigho,  says  Anthony  Rowley! 

But  as  Froggy  was  crossing  over  a  brook, 

Heigho,  says  Rowley, 
A  lily-white  duck  came  and  gobbled  him  up. 

With  a  rowley  powley,  gammon,  and  spinach, 

Heigho,  says  Anthony  Rowley! 

So  there  was  an  end  of  one,  two,  and  three, 

Heigho,  says  Rowley, 
The  Rat,  the  Mouse,  and  the  little  Frog-gee! 


MARY'S  LAMB  41 

With  a  rowley  powley,  gammon,  and  spinach, 
Heigho,  says  Anthony  Rowley! 

HOW  MANY  MILES  IS  IT  TO  BABYLON? 

How  many  miles  is  it  to  Babylon?  — 

Threescore  miles  and  ten. 
Can  I  get  there  by  candlelight?  — 

Yes,  and  back  again! 
If  your  heels  are  nimble  and  light, 
You  may  get  there  by  candlelight. 

TO  BED,  TO  BED 

To  bed,  to  bed, 
Says  Sleepy-head; 

Tarry  awhile,  says  Slow; 
Put  on  the  pan, 
Says  Greedy  Nan, 

Let 's  sup  before  we  go. 

MARY'S  LAMB 

Mary  had  a  little  lamb, 

Its  fleece  was  white  as  snow; 

And  everywhere  that  Mary  went 
The  lamb  was  sure  to  go. 

He  followed  her  to  school  one  day; 

That  was  against  the  rule; 
It  made  the  children  laugh  and  play 

To  see  a  lamb  at  school. 


42  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

And  so  the  teacher  turned  him  out, 

But  still  he  lingered  near. 
And  waited  patiently  about 

Till  Mary  did  appear. 

Then  he  ran  to  her,  and  laid 

His  head  upon  her  arm. 
As  if  he  said,  "I'm  not  afraid,  — 

You  '11  keep  me  from  all  harm." 

THERE  WAS  A  JOLLY  MILLER, 

There  was  a  jolly  miller  once, 

Lived  on  the  river  Dee; 
He  worked  and  sung  from  morn  till  night. 

No  lark  more  blithe  than  he. 
And  this  the  burthen  of  his  song 

For  ever  used  to  be  — 
I  care  for  nobody,  not  I, 

If  no  one  cares  for  me. 

Isaac  Bickerstaffe 


A  CHANTED  CALENDAR 

First  came  the  primrose 

On  the  bank  high, 

Like  a  maiden  looking  forth 

From  the  window  of  a  tower 

When  the  battle  rolls  below, 

So  look'd  she. 

And  saw  the  storms  go  by. 


A  CHANTED  CALENDAR  43 

Then  came  the  wind-flower 
In  the  valley  left  behind, 
As  a  wounded  maiden,  pale 
With  purple  streaks  of  woe, 
When  the  battle  has  roll'd  by- 
Wanders  to  and  fro, 
So  totter'd  she, 
Dishevell'd  in  the  wind. 

Then  came  the  daisies, 

On  the  first  of  May, 

Like  a  banner'd  show's  advance 

While  the  crowd  runs  by  the  way. 

With  ten  thousand  flowers  about  them 

they  came  trooping  through  the  fields. 
As  a  happy  people  come, 
So  came  they. 
As  a  happy  people  come 
When  the  war  has  roll'd  away, 
With  dance  and  tabor,  pipe,  and  drum, 
And  all  make  holiday. 

Then  came  the  cowslip, 

Like  a  dancer  in  the  fair. 

She  spread  her  little  mat  of  green, 

And  on  it  danced  she. 

With  a  fillet  bound  about  her  brow, 

A  fillet  round  her  happy  brow, 

A  golden  fillet  round  her  brow, 

And  rubies  in  her  hair. 

Sydney  Dobell 


44  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

RUTH 

She  stood  breast-high  amid  the  corn, 
Clasp'd  by  the  golden  Hght  of  morn, 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  sun, 
Who  many  a  glowing  kiss  had  won.  , 

On  her  cheek  an  autumn  flush, 
Deeply  ripen'd;  —  such  a  blush 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  born,' 
Like  red  poppies  grown  with  corn. 

Round  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell. 
Which  were  blackest,  none  could  tell, 
But  long  lashes  veil'd  a  light, 
That  had  else  been  all  too  bright. 

And  her  hat,  with  shady  brim, 
Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim; 
Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stooks, 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks:  — ' 

Sure,  I  said,  Heav'n  did  not  mean, 
Where  I  reap  thou  shouldst  but  glean. 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown  and  come, 
Share  my  harvest  and  my  home. 

Thomas  Hood 


A  BOY'S  SONG  45 

A  BOY'S  SONG 

Where  the  pools  are  bright  and  deep. 
Where  the  gray  trout  lies  asleep, 
Up  the  river  and  over  the  lea, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

Where  the  blackbird  sings  the  latest, 
Where  the  hawthorn  blooms  the  sweetest. 
Where  the  nestlings  chirp  and  flee. 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

Where  the  mowers  mow  the  cleanest, 
Where  the  hay  lies  thick  and  greenest. 
There  to  track  the  homeward  bee, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

Where  the  hazel  bank  is  steepest, 
Where  the  shadow  falls  the  deepest. 
Where  the  clustering  nuts  fall  free, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

Why  the  boys  should  drive  away 
Little  sweet  maidens  from  the  play, 
Or  love  to  banter  and  fight  so  well. 
That's  the  thing  I  never  could  tell. 

But  this  I  know,  I  love  to  play 
Through  the  meadow,  among  the  hay. 
Up  the  water  and  over  the  lea. 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

James  Hogg 


46  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

LORD  ULLIN'S  DAUGHTER 

A  Chieftain  to  the  Highlands  bound 
Cries  "Boatman,  do  not  tarry! 

And  I'll  give  thee  a  silver  pound 
To  row  us  o'er  the  ferry!" 

"Now  who  be  ye,  would  cross  Lochgyle, 
This  dark  and  stormy  water?" 
O  I'm  the  chief  of  Ulva's  isle. 
And  this.  Lord  Ullin's  daughter. 


« 


(( 


And  fast  before  her  father's  men 
Three  days  we've  fled  together, 
For  should  he  find  us  in  the  glen, 
My  blood  would  stain  the  heather. 

"His  horsemen  hard  behind  us  ride  — 
Should  they  our  steps  discover, 

Then  who  will  cheer  my  bonny  bride 
When  they  have  slain  her  lover?" 

Out  spoke  the  hardy  Highland  wight, 
"I'll  go,  my  chief,  I'm  ready: 

It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright, 
But  for  your  winsome  lady:  — 

"And  by  my  word !  the  bonny  bird 

In  danger  shall  not  tarry; 
So  though  the  waves  are  raging  white 

I'll  row  you  o'er  the  ferry." 


LORD  ULLIN'S  DAUGHTER  47 

By  this  the  storm  grew  loud  apace, 

The  water-wraith  was  shrieking; 
And  in  the  scowl  of  heaven  each  face 

Grew  dark  as  they  were  speaking. 

But  still  as  wilder  blew  the  wind 

And  as  the  night  grew  drearer, 
Adown  the  glen  rode  armed  men. 

Their  trampling  sounded  nearer. 

"O  haste  thee,  haste!'*  the  lady  cries, 
"Though  tempests  round  us  gather; 

I'll  meet  the  raging  of  the  skies, 
But  not  an  angry  father." 

The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land, 

A  stormy  sea  before  her,  — 
When,  oh!  too  strong  for  human  hand 

The  tempest  gather'd  o'er  her. 

And  still  they  row'd  amidst  the  roar 

Of  waters  fast  prevailing: 
Lord  Ullin  reach'd  that  fatal  shore,  — 

His  wrath  was  changed  to  wailing. 

For,  sore  dismay'd,  through  storm  and  shade 

His  child  he  did  discover:  — 
One  lovely  hand  she  strctch'd  for  aid, 

And  one  was  round  her  lover. 

"Come  back!  come  back!"  he  cried  in  grief 
"Across  this  stormy  water: 


48  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY, 

And  I  '11  forgive  your  Highland  chief, 
My  daughter!  —  O  my  daughter!" 

*T  was  vain:  the  loud  waves  lash'd  the  shore, 

Return  or  aid  preventing: 
The  waters  wild  went  o'er  his  child, 

And  he  was  left  lamenting. 

Thomas  Campbell 

A  DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  SPRING 

And  now  all  nature  seemed  in  love; 

The  lusty  sap  began  to  move; 

New  juice  did  stir  the  embracing  vines. 

And  birds  had  drawn  their  valentines; 

The  jealous  trout  that  now  did  lie, 

Rose  at  a  well-dissembled  fly: 

There  stood  my  friend  with  patient  skill, 

Attending  of  his  trembling  quill. 

Already  were  the  eaves  possessed 

With  the  swift  pilgrim's  daubed  nest: 

The  groves  already  did  rejoice 

In  Philomel's  triumphing  voice. 

The  showers  were  short,  the  weather  mild. 

The  morning  fresh,  the  evening  smiled. 

Joan  takes  her  neat-rubbed  pail  and  now 

She  trips  to  milk  the  sand-red  cow; 

Where,  for  some  sturdy  football  swain, 

Joan  strokes  a  sillabub  or  twain. 

The  fields  and  gardens  were  beset 

With  tulip,  crocus,  violet; 


SPRING  MORNING  49 

And  now,  though  late,  the  modest  rose 
Did  more  than  half  a  blush  disclose. 
Thus  all  looked  gay,  all  full  of  cheer, 
To  welcome  the  new-liveried  year. 

Sir  Henry  Wotton 

SPRING  MORNING 

THOMALIN 

Where  is  every  piping  lad 
That  the  fields  are  not  yclad 

With  their  milk-white  sheep? 
Tell  me:  is  it  holiday, 
Or  if  in  the  month  of  May 

Use  they  long  to  sleep.? 

PIERS 

Thomalin,  't  is  not  too  late, 
For  the  turtle  and  her  mate 

Sitten  yet  in  nest: 
And  the  thrustle  hath  not  been 
Gath'ring  worms  yet  on  the  green, 

But  attends  her  rest. 
Not  a  bird  hath  taught  her  young, 
Nor  her  morning's  lesson  sung 

In  the  shady  grove: 
But  the  nightingale  in  dark 
Singing  woke  the  mounting  lark: 

She  records  her  love. 
Not  the  sun  hath  with  his  beams 
,   Gilded  yet  our  crystal  streams; 


50  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Rising  from  the  sea, 
Mists  do  crown  the  mountain's  tops, 
And  each  pretty  myrtle  drops." 

'T  is  but  newly  day. 

William  Browne 


WILL  MAKE  YOU  BROOCHES 

I  WILL  make  you  brooches  and  toys  for  your  de- 
light 
Of  bird-song  at  morning  and  star-shine  at  night. 
I  will  make  a  palace  fit  for  you  and  me 
Of  green  days  in  forests  and  blue  days  at  sea. 

I  will  make  my  kitchen,  and  you  shall  keep  your 

room. 
Where  white  flows  the  river  and  bright  blows  the 

broom. 
And  you  shall  wash  your  linen  and  keep  your  body 

white 
In  rainfall  at  morning  and  dewfall  at  night. 

And  this  shall  be  for  music  when  no  one  else  is 

near. 
The  fine  song  for  singing,  the  rare  song  to  hear! 
That  only  I  remember,  that  only  you  admire. 
Of  the  broad  road  that  stretches  and  the  roadside 

fire. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


MENAPHON'S  ROUNDELAY  51 

MENAPHON'S  ROUNDELAY 

When  tender  ewes,  brought  home  with  evening  sun, 

Wend  to  their  folds 

And  to  their  holds 
The  shepherds  trudge  when  light  of  day  is  done, 

Upon  a  tree 
The  eagle,  Jove's  fair  bird,  did  perch; 

There  resteth  he. 
A  little  fly  his  harbour  then  did  search, 
And  did  presume,  though  others  laughed  thereat, 
To  perch  whereas  the  princely  eagle  sat. 

The  eagle  frowned,  and  shook  his  royal  wings. 

And  charged  the  fly 

From  thence  to  hie: 
Afraid,  in  haste,  the  little  creature  flings, 

Yet  seeks  again, 
Fearful,  to  perk  him  by  the  eagle's  side. 

With  moody  vein, 
The  speedy  post  of  Ganymede  replied, 
"Vassal,  avaunt,  or  with  my  wings  you  die; 
Is  't  fit  an  eagle  seat  him  with  a  fly?" 

The  fly  craved  pity,  still  the  eagle  frowned; 

The  silly  fly, 

Ready  to  die, 
Disgraced,  displaced,  fell  grovelling  to  the  ground: 

The  eagle  saw. 
And  with  a  royal  mind  said  to  the  fly, 

"Be  not  in  awe. 


5«  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

I  scorn  by  me  the  meanest  creature  die; 
Then  seat  thee  here."  The  joyful  fly  upflings, 
And  sat  safe  shadowed  with  the  eagle's  wings. 

Robert  Greene 


EVENING  SONG 

Shepherds  all,  and  maidens  fair. 
Fold  your  flocks  up,  for  the  air 
,  *Gins  to  thicken,  and  the  sun  ^ 
Already  his  great  course  hath  run.' 
See  the  dew-drops  how  they  kiss 
Every  little  flower  that  is, 
Hanging  on  their  velvet  heads, 
Like  a  rope  of  crystal  beads: 
See  the  heavy  clouds  low  falling, 
And  bright  Hesperus  down  calling 
The  dead  Night  from  under  ground; 
At  whose  rising,  mists  unsound. 
Damps  and  vapours  fly  apace. 
Hovering  o'er  the  wanton  face 
Of  these  pastures,  where  they  come, 
Striking  dead  both  bud  and  bloom; 
Therefore,  from  such  danger  lock 
Every  one  his  loved  flock; 
And  let  your  dogs  lie  loose  without, 
Lest  the  wolf  come  as  a  scout 
From  the  mountain,  and  ere  day, 
Bear  a  lamb  or  kid  away; 
Or  the  crafty  thievish  fox 
Break  upon  your  simple  flocks. 


NIGHT.  S3 

To  secure  yourselves  from  these, 
Be  not  too  secure  in  ease; 
Let  one  eye  his  watches  keep, 
Whilst  the  other  eye  doth  sleep; 
So  shall  you  good  shepherds  prove, ' 
And  for  ever  hold  the  love 
Of  our  great  god.   Sweetest  slumbers. 
And  soft  silence  fall  in  numbers 
On  your  eyelids!   So,  farewell! 
Thus  I  end  my  evening's  knell. 

John  Fletcher 

NIGHT 

The  sun  descending  in  the  west, 

The  evening  star  does  shine; 
The  birds  are  silent  in  their  nest, 

And  I  must  seek  for  mine. 
The  moon,  like  a  flower, 
In  heaven's  high  bower. 
With  silent  delight 
Sits  and  smiles  on  the  night. 

Farewell,  green  fields  and  happy  groves. 
Where  flocks  have  took  delight. 

Where  lambs  have  nibbled,  silent  moves 
The  feet  of  angels  bright; 

Unseen  they  pour  blessing, 

And  joy  without  ceasing, 

On  each  bud  and  blossom. 

And  each  sleeping  bosom. 


54  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

They  look  in  every  thoughtless  nest. 

Where  birds  are  cover'd  warm; 
They  visit  caves  of  every  beast, 
To  keep  them  all  from  harm. 
If  they  see  any  weeping, 
That  should  have  been  sleeping, 
They  pour  sleep  on  their  head, 
And  sit  down  by  their  bed. 

When  wolves  and  tigers  howl  for  prey, 
They  pitying  stand  and  weep; 

Seeking  to  drive  their  thirst  away, 
And  keep  them  from  the  sheep. 

But  if  they  rush  dreadful, 

The  angels,  most  heedful. 

Receive  each  mild  spirit. 

New  worlds  to  inherit. 

And  there  the  lion's  ruddy  eyes 
Shall  flow  with  te?rs  of  gold. 

And  pitying  the  tender  cries, 
And  walking  round  the  fold, 

Saying,  "Wrath,  by  His  meekness, 

And,  by  His  health,  sickness 

Is  driven  away 

From  our  immortal  day. 

**And  now  beside  thee,  bleating  Iamb, 
I  can  lie  down  and  sleep; 

Or  think  on  Him  who  bore  thy  name. 
Graze  after  thee  and  weep. 


LEISURE  S5 

For,  wash'd  in  life's  river, 
My  bright  mane  for  ever 
Shall  shine  like  the  gold 
As  I  guard  o'er  the  fold."  - 

William  Blake 


LEISURE 

What  is  this  life  if,  full  of  care, 
We  have  no  time  to  stand  and  stare. 

No  time  to  stand  beneath  the  boughs 
And  stare  as  long  as  sheep  or  cows. 

No  time  to  see,  when  woods  we  pass, 
Where  squirrels  hide  their  nuts  in  grass. 

No  time  to  see,  in  broad  daylight, 
Streams  full  of  stars,  like  skies  at  nigh^. 

No  time  to  turn  at  Beauty's  glance, 
And  watch  her  feet,  how  they  can  dance. 

No  time  to  wait  till  her  mouth  can 
Enrich  that  smile  her  eyes  began. 

A  poor  life  this  if,  full  of  care, 

We  have  no  time  to  stand  and  stare. 

W.  H.  Da  VIES 


56  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

A  WISH 

This  only  grant  me,  that  my  means  may  He 
Too  low  for  envy,  for  contempt  too  high. 

Some  honour  I  would  have. 
Not  from  great  deeds,  but  good  alone. 
The  unknown  are  better  than  ill  known; 

Rumour  can  ope  the  grave. 
Acquaintance  I  would  have,  but  when  't  depends 
Not  on  the  number,  but  the  choice  of  friends. 

Books  should,  not  business,  entertain  the  light, 
And  sleep,  as  undisturb'd  as  death,  the  night. 

My  house  a  cottage,  more 
Than  palace,  and  should  fitting  be, 
For  all  my  use,  not  luxury. 

My  garden  painted  o'ei 
With  nature's  hands,  not  art's;  and  pleasures  yield, 
Horace  might  envy  in  his  Sabine  field. 

Thus  would  I  double  my  life's  fading  space, 
For  he  that  runs  it  well,  twice  runs  his  race. 

And  in  this  true  delight 
The  unbought  sports,  this  happy  state, 
I  would  not  fear  nor  wish  my  fate. 

But  boldly  say  each  night. 
To-morrow  let  my  sun  his  beams  display, 
Or  in  clouds  hide  them;  I  have  liv'd  to-day. 

Abraham  Cowlet 


PAST  AND  PRESENT  57 

ROSE  AYLMER 

Ah,  what  avails  the  sceptred  race! 
Ah,  what  the  form  divine! 
What  every  virtue,  every  grace! 
Rose  Aylmer,  all  were  thine. 

Rose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful  eyes 

May  weep,  but  never  see, 

A  night  of  memories  and  sighs 

I  consecrate  to  thee. 

-  Walter  Savage  Landor 

PAST  AND  PRESENT 

I  REMEMBER,  I  remember 
The  house  where  I  was  born, 
The  little  window  where  the  sun 
Came  peeping  in  at  morn; 
He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon, 
Nor  brought  too  long  a  day; 
But  now  I  often  wish  the  night 
Had  borne  my  breath  away. 

I  remember,  I  remember 
The  roses  red  and  white, 
The  violets  and  the  lily-cups  — 
Those  flowers  made  of  light! 
The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built. 
And  where  my  brother  set 


S8  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

The  laburnum  on  his  birthday  — 
The  tree  is  living  yet! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

Where  I  was  used  to  swing 

And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 

To  swallows  on  the  wing; 

My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then 

That  is  so  heavy  now, 

And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 

The  fever  on  my  brow. 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  lir-trees  dark  and  high; 

I  used  to  think  their  slender  tope 

Were  close  against  the  sky; 

It  was  a  childish  ignorance, 

But  now  't  is  little  joy 

To  know  I  'm  farther  off  from  Heaven 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 

Thomas  Hood 

A  SISTER 

Behold,  within  the  leafy  shade. 

Those  bright  blue  eggs  together  laid! 

On  me  the  chance-discovered  sight 

Gleamed  like  a  vision  of  delight. 

I  started  —  seeming  to  espy 

The  home  and  sheltered  bed. 

The  sparrow's  dwelling,  which  hard  by 


OLD  CROW  S9 

My  father's  house  in  wet  or  dry 
My  sister  Emmeline  and  I 
Together  visited. 

She  looked  at  it  and  seemed  to  fear  it; 
Dreading,  though  wishing,  to  be  near  it; 
Such  heart  was  in  her,  being  then 
A  little  Prattler  among  men. 
The  Blessing  of  my  later  years 
Was  with  me  when  a  boy; 
She  gave  me  eyes,  she  gave  me  ears, 
And  humble  cares,  and  delicate  fears 
A  heart  the  fountain  of  sweet  tears, 
And  love,  and  thought,  and  joy. 

William  WoRDSVi^ORTH 

OLD  CROW 

The  bird  in  the  corn 

Is  a  marvellous  crow. 
He  was  laid  and  was  born 

In  the  season  of  snow; 
And  he  chants  his  old  catches 
Like  a  ghost  under  hatches. 

He  comes  from  the  shades 

Of  his  wood  very  early, 
And  works  in  the  blades 

Of  the  wheat  and  the  barley. 
And  he's  happy,  although 
He's  a  grumbleton  crow. 


6o  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

The  larks  have  devices 

For  sunny  delight, 
And  the  sheep  in  their  fleeces 

Are  woolly  and  white; 
But  these  things  are  scorn 
Of  the  bird  in  the  corn. 

And  morning  goes  by, 

And  still  he  is  there, 
Till  a  rose  in  the  sky 

Calls  him  back  to  his  lair 
In  the  boughs  where  the  gloom 
Is  a  part  of  his  plume. 

But  the  boy  in  the  lane 
With  his  gun,  by-and-by, 

To  the  heart  of  the  grain 
Will  narrowly  spy. 

And  the  twilight  will  come. 

And  no  crow  will  fly  home. 

John  Drinkwateb 

DAFFODIL 

BATTE 

GoRBO,  as  thou  camest  this  way, 

By  yonder  little  hill, 
Or  as  thou  through  the  fields  did  stray, 

Saw'st  thou  my  Daffodil? 

She's  in  a  frock  of  Lincoln  green, 
Which  colour  likes  her  sight, 


DAFFODIL  6i 

And  never  hath  her  beauty  seen, 
But  through  a  veil  of  white; 

Than  roses  richer  to  behold, 

That  trim  up  lovers'  bowers, 
The  pansy  and  the  marigold, 

Though  Phcebus'  paramours. 

GORBO 

Thou  well  describ'st  the  daffodil; 

It  is  not  full  an  hour, 
Since  by  the  spring,  near  yonder  hill, 

I  saw  that  lovely  flower. 

BATTE 

Yet  my  fair  flower  thou  didst  not  meet 

Nor  news  of  her  didst  bring, 
And  yet  my  Daffodil 's  more  sweet 

Than  that  by  yonder  spring. 

GORBO 

I  saw  a  shepherd  that  doth  keep 

In  yonder  field  of  lilies. 
Was  making  (as  he  fed  his  sheep) 

A  wreath  of  daffodillies. 

BATTE 

Yet,  Gorbo,  thou  delud'st  me  still. 

My  flower  thou  didst  not  see; 
For,  know,  my  pretty  Daffodil 

Is  worn  of  none  but  me. 


Ci  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

To  show  itself  but  near  her  feet 

No  lily  is  so  bold, 
Except  to  shade  her  from  the  heat. 

Or  keep  her  from  the  cold. 

GORBO 

Through  yonder  vale  as  I  did  pass, 

Descending  from  the  hill, 
I  met  a  smirking  bonny  lass. 

They  call  her  Daffodil: 

Whose  presence,  as  along  she  went, 
The  pretty  flowers  did  greet, 

As  though  their  heads  they  downward  h 
With  homage  to  her  feet. 

And  all  the  shepherds  that  were  nigh. 

From  top  of  every  hill. 
Unto  the  valleys  loud  did  cry, 

There  goes  sweet  Daffodil. 


BATTE 

Ay,  gentle  shepherd,  now  with  joy 

Thou  all  my  flocks  dost  fill, 
That's  she  alone,  kind  shepherd  boy; 
\Let  us  to  Daffodil. 

Michael  Drayton 


A  CHRISTMAS  LEGEND  63 

A  CHRISTMAS  LEGEND 

Abroad  on  a  winter's  night  there  ran 
Under  the  starlight,  leaping  the  rills 
Swollen  with  snow-drip  from  the  hills, 
Goat-legged,  goat-bearded  Pan. 

He  loved  to  run  on  the  crisp  white  floor, 
Where  black  hill-torrents  chiselled  grooves, 
And  he  loved  to  print  his  clean-cut  hooves, 
Where  none  had  trod  before. 

And  now  he  slacked  and  came  to  a  stand 
Beside  a  river  too  broad  to  leap; 
And  as  he  panted  he  heard  a  sheep 
That  bleated  near  at  hand. 

"Bell-wether,  bell-wether,  what  do  you  say? 
Peace,  and  huddle  your  ewes  from  cold!" 
"Master,  but  ere  we  went  to  fold 
Our  herdsman  hastened  away. 

"Over  the  hill  came  other  twain 
And  pointed  away  to  Bethlehem, 
And  spake  with  him,  and  he  followed  them. 
And  has  not  come  again. 


« 


He  dropped  his  pipe  of  the  river-reed; 
He  left  his  scrip  in  his  haste  to  go; 
And  all  our  grazing  is  under  snow. 
So  that  we  cannot  feed." 


64  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

"Left  his  sheep  on  a  winter's  night?" 
Pan  folded  them  with  an  angry  frown. 
"Bell-wether,  bell-wether,  I  '11  go  down 
Where  the  star  shines  bright." 

Down  by  the  hamlet  he  met  the  man. 
"Shepherd,  no  shepherd,  thy  flock  is  lorn!" 
"Master,  no  master,  a  child  is  born 
Royal,  greater  than  Pan. 

"Lo,  I  have  seen;  I  go  to  my  sheep; 
Follow  my  footsteps  through  the  snow, 
But  warily,  warily  see  thou  go, 
For  child  and  mother  sleep." 

Into  the  stable-yard  Pan  crept, 
And  there  in  a  manger  a  baby  lay 
Beside  his  mother  upon  the  hay, 
And  mother  and  baby  slept. 

Pan  bent  over  the  sleeping  child, 
Gazed  on  him,  panting  after  his  run; 
And  while  he  wondered,  the  little  one 
Opened  his  eyes  and  smiled; 

Smiled,  and  after  a  little  space 
Struggled  an  arm  from  the  swaddling-band, 
And  raising  a  tiny  dimpled  hand, 
Patted  the  bearded  face. 

Something  snapped  in  the  breast  of  Pan; 
His  heart,  his  throat,  his  eyes  were  sore, 


THE  GREEN  LINNET  65 

And  he  wished  to  weep  as  never  before 
Since  the  world  began. 

And  out  he  went  to  the  silly  sheep, 
To  the  fox  on  the  hill,  the  fish  in  the  sea, 
The  horse  in  the  stall,  the  bird  in  the  tree. 
Asking  them  how  to  weep. 

They  could  not  teach  —  they  did  not  know; 
The  law  stands  writ  for  the  beast  that's  dumb 
That  a  limb  may  ache  and  a  heart  be  numb, 
But  never  a  tear  can  flow. 

So  bear  you  kindly  to-day,  O  Man, 
To  all  that  is  dumb  and  all  that  is  wild, 
For  the  sake  of  the  Christmas  Babe  who  smiled 
In  the  eyes  of  great  god  Pan. 

Frank  Sidgwick 


THE  GREEN  LINNET 

Beneath  these  fruit-tree  boughs  that  shed 
Their  snow-white  blossoms  on  my  head, 
With  brightest  sunshine  round  me  spread 

Of  spring's  unclouded  weather. 
In  this  sequestered  nook  how  sweet 
To  sit  upon  my  orchard-seat! 
And  birds  and  flowers  once  more  to  greet. 

My  last  year's  friends  together. 

One  have  I  marked,  the  happiest  guest 
In  all  this  covert  of  the  blest; 


66  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Hail  to  Thee,  far  above  the  rest 
In  joy  of  voice  and  pinion! 

Thou,  Linnet!  in  thy  green  array, 

Presiding  Spirit  here  to-day, 

Dost  lead  the  revels  of  the  May, 
And  this  is  thy  dominion. 

While  birds,  and  butterflies,  and  flowers, 
Make  all  one  band  of  paramours, 
Thou,  ranging  up  and  down  the  bowers. 

Art  sole  in  thy  employment; 
A  Life,  a  Presence  like  the  Air, 
Scattering  thy  gladness  without  care,' 
Too  blest  with  any  one  to  pair, 

Thyself  thy  own  enjoyment. 

Amid  yon  tuft  of  hazel-trees, 
That  twinkle  to  the  gusty  breeze. 
Behold  him  perch'd  in  ecstasies, 

Yet  seeming  still  to  hover; 
There!  where  the  flutter  of  his  wings 
Upon  his  back  and  body  flings 
Shadows  and  sunny  glimmerings. 

That  cover  him  all  over. 

My  dazzled  sight  he  oft  deceives  — 
A  Brother  of  the  dancing  leaves; 
Then  flits,  and  from  the  cottage-eaves 

Pours  forth  his  song  in  gushes; 
As  if  by  that  exulting  strain 
He  mocked  and  treated  with  disdain 


NICHOLAS  NYE  e^ 

The  voiceless  Form  he  chose  to  feign, 
While  fluttering  in  the  bushes. 

William  Wordsworth 


THE  OWL 

When  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come, 

And  dew  is  cold  upon  the  ground, 
And  the  far-off  stream  is  dumb, 
And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round, 
And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round: 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 

When  merry  milkmaids  click  the  latch, 
And  rarely  smells  the  new-mown  hay, 
And  the  cock  hath  sung  beneath  the  thatch 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay. 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay: 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits. 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 

Alfred  Tennyson 

NICHOLAS  NYE 

Thistle  and  darnel  and  dock  grew  there,- 
And  a  bush,  in  the  corner,  of  may, 

On  the  orchard  wall  I  used  to  sprawl 
In  the  blazing  heat  of  the  day; 

Half  asleep  and  half  awake, 

While  the  birds  went  twittering  by, 


68  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

And  nobody  there  my  lone  to  share 
But  Nicholas  Nye. 

Nicholas  Nye  was  lean  and  gray, 

Lame  of  a  leg  and  old, 
More  than  a  score  of  donkey's  years 

He  had  seen  since  he  was  foaled; 
He  munched  the  thistles,  purple  and  spiked, 

Would  sometimes  stoop  and  sigh, 
And  turn  to  his  head,  as  if  he  said, 

"Poor  Nicholas  Nye!" 

Alone  with  his  shadow  he'd  drowse  in  the  meadow. 

Lazily  swinging  his  tail, 
At  break  of  day  he  used  to  bray  — 

Not  much  too  hearty  and  hale; 
But  a  wonderful  gumption  was  under  his  skin, 

And  a  clear  calm  light  in  his  eye, 
And  once  in  a  while,  he'd  smile  — 

Would  Nicholas  Nye. 

Seem  to  be  smiling  at  me,  he  would, 

From  his  bush  in  the  corner,  of  may, 
Bony  and  ownerless,  widowed  and  worn 

Knobble-kneed,  lonely  and  gray; 
And  over  the  grass  would  seem  to  pass 

'Neath  the  deep  dark  blue  of  the  sky, 
Something  much  better  than  words  between  me 

And  Nicholas  Nye. 

But  dusk  would  come  in  the  apple  boughs. 
The  green  of  the  glow-worm  shine, 


LAWN  AS  WHITE  AS  DRIVEN  SNOW       69 

The  birds  In  nest  would  crouch  to  rest, 

And  home  I'd  trudge  to  mine; 
And  there  in  the  moonhght,  dark  with  dew, 

Asking  not  wherefore  nor  why, 
Would  brood  like  a  ghost,  and  as  still  as  a  post, 

Old  Nicholas  Nye. 

Walter  de  la  Mare 

A  SLUTvIBER  DID  MY  SPIRIT  SEAL" 

A  SLUMBER  did  my  spirit  seal; 

I  had  no  human  fears: 

She  seem'd  a  thing  that  could  not  feel 

The  touch  of  earthly  years. 

No  motion  has  she  now,  no  force; 
She  neither  hears  nor  sees; 
RoU'd  round  in  earth's  diurnal  course 
With  rocks,  and  stones,  and  trees. 

William  Wordsworth 


LAWN  AS  WHITE  AS  DRIVEN  SNOW 

Lawn  as  white  as  driven  snow; 
Cypress  black  as  e'er  was  crow; 
Gloves  as  sweet  as  damask  roses; 
Masks  for  faces  and  for  noses; 
Bugle  bracelet,  necklace  amber, 
Perfume  for  a  lady's  chamber; 
Golden  quoifs  and  stomachers, 
For  my  lads  to  give  their  dears? 


70  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Pins  and  poking-sticks  of  steel, 
What  maids  lack  from  head  to  heel: 
Come  buy  of  me,  come;  come  buy,  come  buy; 
Buy,  lads,  or  else  your  lasses  cry: 
Come  buy. 

William  Shakespeare 


OVER  HILL,  OVER  DALE 

Over  hill,  over  dale. 

Thorough  bush,  thorough  brier. 
Over  park,  over  pale, 

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 
I  do  wander  everywhere. 
Swifter  than  the  moon's  sphere; 
And  I  serve  the  fairy  queen, 
To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green. 
The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be: 
In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see; 
Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favours, 
In  those  freckles  live  their  savours; 
I  must  go  seek  some  dewdrops  here, 
And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 

William  Shakespeare 

A  SONG 

A  widow  bird  sate  mourning  for  her  love 

Upon  a  wintry  bough; 
The  frozen  wind  crept  on  above 

The  freezing  stream  below. 


PACK,  CLOUDS,  AWAY  7' 

There  was  no  leaf  upon  the  forest  bare, 

No  flower  upon  the  ground, 
And  little  motion  in  the  air 

Except  the  mill-wheel's  sound. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


PACK,  CLOUDS,  AWAY 

Pack,  clouds,  away,  and  welcome  day, 

With  night  we  banish  sorrow; 
Sweet  air  blow  soft,  mount  lark  aloft 

To  give  my  Love  good-morrow! 
Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her  mind 

Notes  from  the  lark  I'll  borrow; 
Bird  prune  thy  wing,  nightingale  sing, 

To  give  my  Love  good-morrow; 

To  give  my  Love  good-morrow 
Notes  from  them  all  I  '11  borrow. 

Wake  from  thy  nest,  Robin-redbreast, 

Sing  birds  in  every  furrow; 
And  from  each  bill,  let  music  shrill 
Give  my  fair  Love  good-morrow! 
Blackbird  and  thrush  in  every  bush, 

Stare,  linnet,  and  cock-sparrow. 
You  pretty  elves,  amongst  yourselves 
Sing  my  fair  Love  good-morrow! 
To  give  my  Love  good-morrow 
Sing  birds  in  every  furrow! 

Thomas  Heywood 


7»  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

raE  BONNY  EARL  OF  MURRAY 

Ye  Highlands  and  ye  Lawlands, 

0  where  hae  ye  been? 

They  hae  slain  the  Earl  of  Murray, 
And  hae  laid  him  on  the  green. 

Now  wae  be  to  thee,  Huntley, 
And  whairfore  did  you  sae? 

1  bade  you  bring  him  wi'  you, 
But  forbade  you  him  to  slay. 

He  was  a  braw  gallant, 

And  he  rid  at  the  ring; 

And  the  bonny  Earl  of  Murray, 

O  he  might  hae  been  a  king! 

_;        .  a  - 

He  was  a  braw  gallant, 
And  he  play'd  at  the  ba'; 
And  the  bonny  Earl  of  Murray 
Was  the  flower  amang  them  a'! 

He  was  a  braw  gallant, 
And  he  play'd  at  the  glove; 
'And  the  bonny  Earl  of  Murray, 
He  was  the  queen's  luve! 

O  lang  will  his  Lady 
.'Look  owre  the  Castle  Downe,^ 

Ere  she  see  the  Earl  of  Murray 
.Come  sounding  through  the  town. 

Anonymous 


HELEN  OF  KIRCONNELL  73 

HELEN  OF  KIRCONNELL 

I 

I  WISH  I  were  where  Helen  lies, 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries; 
O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies, 
On  fair  Kirconnell  leal 

II 

Curst  be  the  heart  that  thought  the  thought, 
And  curst  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot, 
When  in  my  arms  burd  Helen  dropt, 
And  died  to  succour  me! 

Ill 

0  think  na  ye  my  heart  was  sair, 

When  my  Love  dropp'd  and  spak  nac  mair! 
There  did  she  swoon  wi'  meikle  care, 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 

IV 

As  I  went  down  the  water  side, 
None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide. 
None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea; 

V 

1  lighted  down  my  sword  to  draw, 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma', 

I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma', 

For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 


74  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

VI 

O  Helen  fair,  beyond  compare! 
I'll  male  a  garland  o'  thy  hair, 
Shall  bind  my  heart  for  evermair, 
Until  the  day  I  dee! 


i 


VII 

O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies ! 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries; 
Out  of  my  bed  she  bids  me  rise, 

Says,  "Haste,  and  come  to  me!" 

VIII 

0  Helen  fair!  O  Helen  chaste! 
If  I  were  with  thee,  I'd  be  blest, 
Where  thou  lies  low  and  talcs  thy  rest, 

On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 

> 

IX 

1  wish  my  grave  were  growing  green, 
A  winding  sheet  drawn  owre  my  een, 
And  I  in  Helen's  arms  lying, 

On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 

X 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies! 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries; 
And  I  am  weary  of  the  skies. 

For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 

Anonymous 


I  SAW  THREE  SHIPS  7S 

I  SAW  THREE  SHIPS 

I 

,  As  I  sat  under  a  sycamore  tree, 

—  A  sycamore-tree,  a  sycamore-tree, 
I  looked  me  out  upon  the  sea 

On  Christ's  Sunday  at  morn. 

II 

I  saw  three  ships  a-sailing  there, 
• —  A-sailing  there,  a-sailing  there, 

Jesu,  Mary,  and  Joseph  they  bare 
On  Christ's  Sunday  at  morn. 

ni 

Joseph  did  whistle  and  Mary  did  sing, 

—  Mary  did  sing,  Mary  did  sing, 
And  all  the  bells  on  earth  did  ring 

For  joy  our  Lord  was  born. 

IV 

O  they  sail'd  in  to  Bethlehem! 

—  To  Bethlehem,  to  Bethlehem; 
Saint  Michael  was  the  steresman, 

Saint  John  sate  in  the  horn. 

V 

And  all  the  bells  on  earth  did  ring 

—  On  earth  did  ring,  on  earth  did  ring; 
"Welcome  be  thou.  Heaven's  King, 

On  Christ's  Sunday  at  morn!" 

Anonymous 


76  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

LORD  RANDAL 

1, 

"O  WHERE  liae  ye  been,  Lord  Randal,  my  son? 

O  where  hae  ye  been,  my  handsome  young  man?"  — 

*'I  hae  been  to  the  wild  wood;  mother,  make  my  bed 

soon. 
For  I'm  weary  wi'  hunting,  and  fain  wald  lie  down." 

II 

"Where  gat  ye  your  dinner.  Lord  Randal,  my  son? 
Where  gat  ye  your  dinner,   my  handsome  young 

man?"  — 
"I  dined  wl'  my  true-love;  mother,  make  my  bed 


»» 


For  I'm  weary  wi'  hunting,  and  fain  wald  lie  down. 


Ill 

"What  gat  ye  to  your  dinner,  Lord  Randal, 'my 

son? 
What  gat  ye  to  your  dinner,  my  handsome  young 

man?" 
"I  gat  eels  boil'd  in  broo';  mother,  make  my  bed 

soon. 
For  I  'm  weary  wi'  hunting,  and  fain  wald  lie  down." 

IV 

"What  became  of  your  bloodhounds.  Lord  Randal, 

my  son? 
What  became  of  your  bloodhounds,  my  handsome 

young  man  ? '"  — 


THE  ELIXIR  77 

"O  they  s weird  and  they  died;  mother,  make  my  bed 

soon, 
For  I  'm  weary  wi'  hunting,  and  fain  wald  lie  down." 

V 

"0  1  fear  ye  are  poison'd,  Lord  Randal,  my  son! 
O I  fear  ye  are  poison'd,  my  handsome  young  man ! "  — 
"O  yes!      I  am    poison'd;  mother,   make  my  bed 

soon, 
For  I'm  sick  at  the  heart,  and  I  fain  wald  lie  down." 

Anonymous 


THE  ELIXIR 

Teach  me,  my  God  and  King, 
In  all  things  thee  to  see, 
And  what  I  do  in  anything, 
To  do  it  as  for  thee: 

Not  rudely,  as  a  beast, 

To  runne  into  an  action; 

But  still  to  make  thee  prepossest. 

And  give  it  his  perfection. 

A  man  that  looks  on  glasse. 

On  it  may  stay  his  eye; 

Or  if  he  pleaseth,  through  it  passe, 

And  then  the  heav'n  espie. 

All  may  of  thee  partake: 
Nothing  can  be  so  mean, 


78  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Which  with  his  tincture  (for  thy  sake) 
Will  not  grow  bright  and  clean. 

A  servant  with  this  clause 

Makes  drudgerie  divine: 

Who  sweeps  a  room,  as  for  thy  laws, 

Makes  that  and  th'  action  fine. 

This  is  the  famous  stone 

That  turneth  all  to  gold: 

For  that  which  God  doth  touch  and  own 

Cannot  for  lesse  be  told. 

George  Herbert 


THE  BELLS  OF  HEAVEN 

T  WOULD  ring  the  bells  of  Heaven 
The  wildest  peal  of  years, 
If  Parson  lost  his  senses 
And  people  came  to  theirs, 
And  he  and  they  together 
Knelt  down  with  angry  prayers 
For  tamed  and  shabby  tigers 
And  dancing  dogs  and  bears, 
And  wretched,  blind  pit  ponies. 
And  littk  hunted  hares. 

Ralph  Hodgson 


AND  DID  THOSE  FEET  IN  ANCIENT  TIME     79 


ODE 

How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallow'd  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung; 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung; 
There  Honour  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay; 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair  * 

To  dwell,  a  weeping  hermit,  there! 

William  Collins 


AND  DID  THOSE  FEET  IN  ANCIENT 

TIME 

And  did  those  feet  in  ancient  time 

Walk  upon  England's  mountain  green? 

And  was  the  holy  Lamb  of  God 

On  England's  pleasant  pastures  seen? 

And  did  the  countenance  divine 
Shine  forth  upon  our  clouded  hills? 

And  was  Jerusalem  builded  here 
Among  these  dark  Satanic  mills? 


80  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Bring  me  my  bow  of  burning  gold! 

Bring  me  my  arrows  of  desire! 
Bring  me  my  spear:  O  clouds,  unfold! 

Bring  me  my  chariot  of  fire! 

I  will  not  cease  from  mental  fight, 

Nor  shall  my  sword  sleep  in  my  hand, 

Till  we  have  built  Jerusalem 

In  England's  green  and  pleasant  land. 

William  Blake 


HE  THAT  LOVES  A  ROSY  CHEEK 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek 

Or  a  coral  lip  admires. 
Or  from  star-like  eyes  doth  seek 

Fuel  to  maintain  his  fires; 
As  old  Time  makes  these  decay, 
So  his  flames  must  waste  away. 

But  a  smooth  and  steadfast  mind, 
•    Gentle  thoughts,  and  calm  desires. 
Hearts  with  equal  love  combined, 

Kindle  never-dying  fires:  — 
Where  these  are  not,  I  despise 
Lovely  cheeks  or  lips  or  eyes. 

Thomas  Carew 


TIME,  YOU  OLD  GIPSY  MAN  8i 

TIAIE,  YOU  OLD  GIPSY  MAN 

Time,  you  old  gipsy  man, 

Will  you  not  stay, 
Put  up  your  caravan 

Just  for  one  day? 

All  things  I  '11  give  you 
Will  you  be  my  guest, 
Bells  for  your  jennet 
Of  silver  the  best, 
Goldsmiths  shall  beat  you  . 
A  great  golden  ring, 
Peacocks  shall  bow  to  you. 
Little  boys  sing, 
Oh,  and  sweet  girls  will 
Festoon  you  with  may. 
Time,  you  old  gipsy, 
Why  hasten  away? 

Last  week  in  Babylon, 

Last  night  in  Rome, 

Morning,  and  in  the  crush 

Under  Paul's  dome; 

Under  Paul's  dial 

You  tighten  your  rein  — 

Only  a  moment. 

And  off  once  again; 

Off  to  some  city 

Now  blind  in  the  womb. 

Off  to  another 

Ere  that's  in  the  tomb. 


82  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Time,  you  old  gipsy  man, 

Will  you  not  stay, 
Put  up  your  caravan 

Just  for  one  day? 

Ralph  Hodgson 


MiESIA'S  SONG 

Sweet  are  the  thoughts  that  savour  of  content; 

The  quiet  mind  is  richer  than  a  crown; 
Sweet  are  the  nights  in  careless  slumber  spent; 

The  poor  estate  scorns  fortune's  angry  frown: 
Such  sweet  content,  such  minds,  such  sleep,  such 

bliss, 
Beggars  enjoy,  when  princes  oft  do  miss. 

The  homely  house  that  harbours  quiet  rest; 

The  cottage  that  affords  no  pride  nor  care; 
The  mean  that  'grees  with  country  music  best; 

The  sweet  consort  of  mirth  and  modest  fare; . 
Obscured  life  sets  down 'a  type  of  bliss: 
A  mind  content  both  crown  and  kingdom  is 

Robert  Greene 


WHAT  PLEASURE  HAVE  GREAT  PRINCES 

What  pleasure  have  great  princes 
!    More  dainty  to  their  choice 
Than  herdsmen  wild,  who  careless 
In  quiet  life  rejoice. 


WHAT  PLEASURE  HAVE  GREAT  PRINCES        83 

And  fortune's  fate  not  fearing 
Sing  sweet  in  summer  morning? 

Their  dealings  plain  and  rightful, 

Are  void  of  all  deceit; 
They  never  know  how  spiteful 

It  is  to  kneel  and  wait 
On  favourite  presumptuous 
Whose  pride  is  vain  and  sumptuous. 

All  day  their  flocks  each  tendeth; 

At  night  they  take  their  rest; 
More  quiet  than  who  sendeth 

His  ship  into  the  East, 
Where  gold  and  pearl  are  plenty; 
But  getting,  very  dainty. 

For  lawyers  and  their  pleading, 

They  'steem  it  not  a  straw; 
They  think  that  honest  meaning 

Is  of  itself  a  law: 
Whence  conscience  judgeth  plainly, 
They  spend  no  money  vainly. 

O  happy  who  thus  liveth! 

Not  caring  much  for  gold; 
With  clothing  which  sufficeth 

To  keep  him  from  the  cold. 
Though  poor  and  plain  his  diet, 
Yet  merry  it  is,  and  quiet. 

Anonymous 


84  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

VERSES  WRITTEN  IN  THE  TOWER  THE 
NIGHT  BEFORE  HE  WAS  BEHEADED 

My  prime  of  youth  is  but  a  frost  of  cares; 

My  feast  of  joy  is  but  a  dish  of  pain; 
My  crop  of  corn  is  but  a  field  of  tares; 

And  all  my  good  is  but  vain  hope  of  gain; 
The  day  is  fled,  and  yet  I  saw  no  sun; 
And  now  I  live,  and  now  my  life  is  done! 

The  spring  is  past,  and  yet  it  hath  not  sprung; 

The  fruit  is  dead,  and  yet  the  leaves  are  green; 
My  youth  is  gone,  and  yet  I  am  but  young; 

I  saw  the  world,  and  yet  I  was  not  seen; 
My  thread  is  cut,  and  yet  it  is  not  spun; 
And  now  I  live,  and  now  my  life  is  done! 

I  sought  my  death,  and  found  it  in  my  womb; 

I  looked  for  life,  and  saw  it  was  a  shade; 
I  trod  the  earth,  and  knew  it  was  my  tomb; 

And  now  I  die,  and  now  I  am  but  made; 
The  glass  is  full,  and  now  my  glass  is  run; 
And  now  I  live,  and  now  my  life  is  done! 

Chidiock  Tichborne 

THE  PERFECT  LIFE 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 

In  bulk,  doth  make  Man  better  be; 

Or  standing  long  an  oak,  three  hundred  year, 

To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and  sere; 


TIME  GOES  BY  TURNS  85 

A  lily  of  a  day 
Is  fairer  far  in  May, 
Although  it  fall  and  die  that  night  — 
It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  Light. 
In  small  proportions  we  just  beauties  see; 
And  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect  be. 

Ben  Jonson 

TIME  GOES  BY  TURNS 

The  lopped  tree  in  time  may  grow  again, 
Most  naked  plants  renew  both  fruit  and  flower; 
The  sorriest  wight  may  find  release  of  pain. 
The  driest  soil  suck  in  some  moistening  shower: 
Time  goes  by  turns,  and  chances  change  by  course, 
From  foul  to  fair,  from  better  hap  to  worse. 

The  sea  of  Fortune  doth  not  ever  flow, 
She  draws  her  favours  to  the  lowest  ebb; 
Her  tides  have  equal  times  to  come  and  go, 
Her  loom  doth  weave  the  fine  and  coarsest  web. 
No  joy  so  great  but  runneth  to  an  end, 
No  hap  so  hard  but  may  in  fine  amend. 

Not  always  fall  of  leaf,  nor  ever  spring, 
Not  endless  night,  not  yet  eternal  day: 
The  saddest  birds  a  season  find  to  sing;  — 
The  roughest  storm  a  calm  may  soon  allay: 
Thus,  with  succeeding  turns,  God  tempereth  all, 
That  man  may  hope  to  rise,  yet  fear  to  fall. 


86  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

A  chance  may  win  that  by  mischance  was  lost; 
The  net  that  holds  no  great,  takes  little  fish; 
In  some  things  all,  in  all  things  none  are  cross'd, 
Few  all  they  need,  but  none  have  all  they  wish; 
Unmeddled  joys  here  to  no  man  befall, 
Who  least,  hath  some;  who  most,  hath  never  all. 

Robert  Southwell 

DEATH 

How  weak  a  star  doth  rule  mankind. 
Which  owes  its  ruin  to  the  same 

Causes  which  Nature  had  designed 
To  cherish  and  preserve  the  frame! 

As  commonwealths  may  be  secure, 
And  no  remote  invasion  dread, 

Yet  may  a  sadder  fall  endure 

From  traitors  in  their  bosom  bred. 

So  while  we  feel  no  violence, 

And  in  our  active  health  do  trust, 

A  secret  hand  doth  snatch  us  hence. 
And  tumble  us  into  the  dust. 

Yet  carelessly  we  run  our  race 

As  if  we  could  death's  summons  waive; 

And  think  not  on  the  narrow  space 
Between  a  cradle  and  a  grave. 

But  since  we  cannot  death  reprieve, 
Our  souls  and  fame  we  ought  to  mind. 


THE  ISLES  OF  GREECE  87 

For  they  our  bodies  will  survive: 
That  goes  beyond,  this  stays  behind. 

If  I  be  sure  my  soul  is  safe, 

And  that  my  actions  will  provide 

My  tomb  a  nobler  epitaph, 

Than  that  I  only  lived  and  died, 

So  that  in  various  accidents 

I  conscience  may  and  honour  keep: 

I  with  that  ease  and  innocence 
Shall  die,  as  infants  go  to  sleep. 

Katherine  Phillips 

THE  ISLES  OF  GREECE 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung. 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, 

Where  Delos  rose,  and  Phcebus  sprung! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet, 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 

The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse, 
The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute, 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse: 
Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 

To  sounds  which  echo  farther  west 

Than  your  sires'  "Islands  of  the  Blest." 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon  -— 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea; 


88  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dream'd  that  Greece  might  still  be  free; 
For  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 
I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

A  king  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis; 

And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below, 
And  men  in  nations;  —  all  were  his! 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day  — 

And  when  the  sun  set  where  were  they? 

And  where  are  they?  and  where  art  thou. 
My  country?  On  thy  voiceless  shore 

The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now  — 
The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more! 

And  must  the  lyre,  so  long  divine, 

Degenerate  Into  hands  like  mine? 

'T  is  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  link'd  among  a  fetter'd  race. 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame, 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face; 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here? 

For  Greeks  a  blush  —  for  Greece  a  tear. 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest? 

Must  we  but  blush?  —  Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth!  render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead! 


THE  ISLES  OF  GREECE  89 

Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae! 

What,  silent  still?  and  silent  all? 

Ah!  no;  —  the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 

And  answer,  "  Let  one  living  head, 
But  one  arise,  —  we  come,  we  come!'* 
'T  is  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

In  vain  —  in  vain:  strike  other  chords; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine! 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine! 
Hark!  rising  to  the  ignoble  call  — 
How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal! 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet; 

Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone? 
Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 

The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one? 
You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave  — 
Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave? 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these! 
It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine: 

He  served  —  but  served  Polycrates  — 
A  tyrant;  but  our  masters  then 
Were  siill,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 


90  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 

Was  freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend; 
That  tyrant  was  Miltiades! 

Oh!  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 
Another  despot  of  the  kind! 
Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

On  Suli's  rock,  and  Parga's  shore, 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore; 
And  there,  perhaps,  some  seed  is  sown. 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks  — 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells; 

In  native  swords,  and  native  ranks, 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells: 

But  Turkish  force,  and  Latin  fraud, 

Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade  — 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine; 

But  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 
My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 

Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep. 

Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 
May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep; 


THE  ATHEIST  AND  THE  ACORN  91 

There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die: 
A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine  — 
Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine! 

THE  ATHEIST  AND  THE  ACORN 

Methinks  this  world  is  oddly  made, 

And  ev'ry  thing's  amiss, 
A  dull,  presuming  Atheist  said, 
As  stretch'd  he  lay  beneath  a  shade; 

And  instanced  in  this: 

Behold,  quoth  he,  that  mighty  thing, 

A  Pumpkin,  large  and  round, 
Is  held  but  by  a  little  string, 
Which  upwards  cannot  make  it  spring. 

Or  bear  it  from  the  ground. 

Whilst  on  this  Oak,  a  fruit  so  small, 

So  disproportion'd  grows; 
That  who  with  sense  surveys  this  All, 
This  universal  Causal  Ball, 

Its  ill  contrivance  knows. 

My  better  judgment  would  have  hung 

That  weight  upon  a  tree. 
And  left  this  mast,  thus  slightly  strung, 
*Mongst  things  which  on  the  surface  sprung, 

And  small  and  feeble  be. 


92  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

No  more  the  caviller  could  say, 

Nor  further  faults  descry; 
For,  as  he  upwards  gazing  lay, 
An  Acorn,  loosen'd  from  the  stay. 

Fell  down  upon  his  eye. 

Th'  offended  part  with  tears  ran  o'er, 

As  punish'd  for  the  sin: 
Fool!  had  that  bough  a  Pumpkin  bore, 
Thy  whimseys  must  have  worked  no  more, 

Nor  skull  had  kept  them  in. 

Anne,  Countess  of  Winchelsea 

THE  WORLD  A  GAME 

This  world  a-hunting  is, 

The  prey  poor  man,  the  Nimrod  fierce  is  Death; 

His  speedy  greyhounds  are 

Lust,  sickness,  envy,  care. 

Strife  that  ne'er  falls  amiss. 

With  all  those  ills  which  haunt  us  while  we  breathe. 

Now,  if  by  chance  we  fly 

Of  these  the  eager  chase. 

Old  age  with  stealing  pace 

Casts  up  his  nets,  and  there  we  panting  die. 

William  Drummond 

REQUIEM 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky, 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie. 


THE  PIED  PIPER  OF  HAJvIELIN  93 

Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die, 

And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 

This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me: 
Here  he  lies  where  he  longed  to  be; 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  sea, 

And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


THE  PIED  PIPER  OF  HAJVIELIN 

I 

Hamelin  Town's  in  Brunswick, 

By  famous  Hanover  city; 
The  river  Weser,  deep  and  wide, 
Washes  its  walls  on  the  southern  side; 
A  pleasanter  spot  you  never  spied; 

But,  when  begins  my  ditty, 
Almost  five  hundred  years  ago, 
To  see  the  townsfolk  suffer  so 

From  vermin,  was  a  pity. 

II 

Rats! 

They  fought  the  dogs  and  killed  the  cats, 

And  bit  the  babies  in  the  cradles. 
And  ate  the  cheeses  out  of  the  vats. 

And  licked  the  soup  from  the  cooks'  own  ladles, 
Split  open  the  kegs  of  salted  sprats, 
Made  nests  inside  men's  Sunday  hats. 
And  even  spoiled  the  women's  chats. 


94  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

By  drowning  their  speaking 
With  shrieking  and  squeaking 
In  fifty  different  sharps  and  flats. 

Ill 

At  last  the  people  in  a  body 

To  the  Town  Hall  came  flocking. 
"'T  is  clear,"  cried  they,  "our  A-Iayor  *s  a  noddy; 

And  as  for  our  Corporation  —  shocking 
To  think  we  buy  gowns  lined  with  ermine 
For  dolts  that  can't  or  won't  determine 
What's  best  to  rid  us  of  our  vermin! 
You  hope,  because  you  're  old  and  obese. 
To  find  in  the  furry  civic  robe  ease! 
Rouse  up,  sirs!  Give  your  brains  a  racking 
To  find  the  remedy  we're  lacking, 
Or,  sure  as  fate,  we'll  send  you  packing!" 
At  this  the  Mayor  and  Corporation 
_  Quaked  with  a  mighty  consternation, 

IV 

An  hour  they  sat  in  Council; 

At  length  the  Mayor  broke  silence: 
"For  a  guilder  I'd  my  ermine  gown  sell  — 

I  wish  I  were  a  mile  hence! 
It's  easy  to  bid  one  rack  one's  brain  — 
I'm  sure  my  poor  head  aches  again, 
I've  scratched  it  so,  and  all  in  vain. 
Oh,  for  a  trap,  a  trap,  a  trap!" 
Just  as  he  said  this,  what  should  hap. 
At  the  chamber  door,  but  a  gentle  tap. 


THE  PIED  PIPER  OF  HAAIELIN  95 

"Bless  us!"  cried  the  Mayor,  "what's  that?'* 

(With  the  Corporation  as  he  sat, 

Looking  little  though  wondrous  fat; 

Nor  brighter  was  his  eye,  nor  moister 

Than  a  too-long-opened  oyster, 

Save  when  at  noon  his  paunch  grew  mutinous 

For  a  plate  of  turtle  green  and  glutinous.) 

"Only  a  scraping  of  shoes  on  the  mat! 

Anything  like  the  sound  of  a  rat 

Makes  my  heart  go  pit-a-pat!" 

V 

**Come  in!"  the  Mayor  cried,  looking  bigger. 

And  in  did  come  the  strangest  figure! 

His  queer  long  coat,  from  heel  to  head, 

Was  half  of  yellow  and  half  of  red; 

And  he  himself  was  tall  and  thin. 

With  sharp  blue  eyes,  each  like  a  pin, 

And  light  loose  hair,  yet  swarthy  skin, 

No  tuft  on  cheek  nor  beard  on  chin, 

But  lips  where  smiles  went  out  and  in; 

There  was  no  guessing  his  kith  and  kin. 

And  nobody  could  enough  admire 

The  tall  man  and  his  quaint  attire. 

Quoth  one:  "It's  as  if  my  great-grandsire, 

Starting  up  at  the  trump  of  Doom's  tone. 

Had  walked  this  way  from  his  painted  tombstone!" 

VI 

He  advanced  to  the  council  table. 

And,  "Please  your  honours,"  said  he,  "I'm  able, 


96  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

By  means  of  a  secret  charm,  to  draw 

All  creatures  living  beneath  the  sun, 

That  creep,  or  swim,  or  fly,  or  run, 

After  me  so  as  you  never  saw! 

And  I  chiefly  use  my  charm 

On  creatures  that  do  people  harm,  — 

The  mole,  the  toad,  the  newt,  the  viper: 

And  people  call  me  the  Pied  Piper." 

(And  here  they  noticed  round  his  neck 

A  scarf  of  red  and  yellow  stripe, 

To  match  his  coat  of  the  self-same  check, 

And  at  the  scarf's  end  hung  a  pipe; 

And  his  fingers,  they  noticed,  were  ever  straying 

As  if  impatient  to  be  playing 

Upon  his  pipe,  as  low  it  dangled 

Over  his  vesture  so  old-fangled.) 

"Yet,"  said  he,  "poor  piper  as  I  am, 

In  Tartary  I  freed  the  Cham, 

Last  June,  from  his  huge  swarm  of  gnats; 

I  eased  in  Asia  the  Nizam 

Of  a  monstrous  brood  of  vampyre  bats: 

And  as  for  what  your  brain  bewilders, 

If  I  can  rid  your  town  of  rats 

Will  you  give  me  a  thousand  guilders.^" 

"One!  fifty  thousand!"  was  the  exclamation 

Of  the  astonished  Mayor  and  Corporation. 

VII 

Into  the  street  the  Piper  stept. 

Smiling  first  a  little  smile. 
As  if  he  knew  what  magic  slept 

In  his  quiet  pipe  the  while; 


THE  PIED  PIPER  OF  HAMELIN  97 

Then,  like  a  musical  adept, 

To  blow  the  pipe  his  lips  he  wrinkled, 

And  green  and  blue  his  sharp  eyes  twinkled, 

Like  a  candle-flame  where  salt  is  sprinkled; 

And  ere  three  shrill  notes  the  pipe  had  uttered, 

You  heard  as  if  an  army  muttered; 

And  the  muttering  grew  to  a  grumbling; 

And  the  grumbling  grew  to  a  mighty  rumbling; 

And  out  of  the  houses  the  rats  came  tumbling; 

Great  rats,  small  rats,  lean  rats,  brawny  rats, 

Brown  rats,  black  rats,  gray  rats,  tawny  rats, 

Grave  old  plodders,  gay  young  friskers, 

Fathers,  mothers,  uncles,  cousins, 
Cocking  tails,  and  pricking  whiskers, 

Families  by  tens  and  dozens; 
Brothers,  sisters,  husbands,  wives  — 
Followed  the  Piper  for  their  lives. 
From  street  to  street  he  piped,  advancing. 
And  step  for  step  they  followed  dancing, 
Until  they  came  to  the  river  Weser, 
Wherein  all  plunged  and  perished! 
—  Save  one,  who,  stout  as  Julius  Caesar, 
Swam  across  and  lived  to  carry 
(As  he,  the  manuscript  he  cherished) 
To  Rat-land  home  his  commentary: 
Which  was,  "At  the  first  shrill  note  of  the  pipe 
I  heard  a  sound  as  of  scraping  tripe, 
And  putting  apples,  wondrous  ripe, 
Into  a  cider-press's  gripe: 
And  a  moving  away  of  pickle-tub  boards, 
And  a  leaving  ajar  of  conserve-cupboards, 


98  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

And  a  drawing  the  corks  of  train-oil-flasks, 

And  a  breaking  the  hoops  of  butter-casks; 

And  it  seemed  as  if  a  voice 

(Sweeter  far  than  by  harp  or  by  psaltery 

Is  breathed)  called  out,  'Oh,  rats,  rejoice! 

The  world  is  grown  to  one  vast  drysaltery! 

So  munch  on,  crunch  on,  take  your  nuncheon, 

Breakfast,  dinner,  supper,  luncheon!" 

And  just  as  a  bulky  sugar-puncheon, 

All  ready  staved,  like  a  great  sun  shone 

Glorious,  scarce  an  inch  before  me. 

Just  as  methought  it  said,  'Come,  bore  me!' 

—  I  found  the  Weser  rolling  o'er  me." 

VIII 

You  should  have  heard  the  Hamelin  people 

Ringing  the  bells  till  they  rocked  the  steeple. 

"Go,"  cried  the  Mayor,  "and  get  long  poles! 

Poke  out  the  nests,  and  block  up  the  holes! 

Consult  with  carpenters  and  builders, 

And  leave  in  our  town  not  even  a  trace 

Of  the  rats!"  —  when  suddenly  up  the  face 

Of  the  Piper  perked  in  the  market-place. 

With  a,  "First,  if  you  please,  my  thousand  guilders!" 

IX 

A  thousand  guilders!  The  Mayor  looked  blue; 

So  did  the  Corporation  too. 

For  council  dinners  made  rare  havoc 

With  Claret,  Moselle,  Vin-de-Grave,  Hock; 


THE  PIED  PIPER  OF  HAMELIN  99 

And  half  the  money  would  replenish 

Their  cellar's  biggest  butt  with  Rhenish. 

To  pay  this  sum  to  a  wandering  fellow, 

With  a  gipsy  coat  of  red  and  yellow! 

"  Beside,"  quoth  the  Mayor,  with  a  knowing  wink, 

"  Our  business  was  done  at  the  river's  brink; 

We  saw  with  our  eyes  the  vermin  sink. 

And  what's  dead  can't  come  to  life,  I  think. 

So,  friend,  we're  not  the  folks  to  shrink 

From  the  duty  of  giving  you  something  for  drink, 

And  a  matter  of  money  to  put  in  your  poke; 

But,  as  for  the  guilders,  what  we  spoke 

Of  them,  as  you  very  well  know,  was  in  joke. 

Beside,  our  losses  have  made  us  thrifty; 

A  thousand  guilders!  come,  take  fifty  1" 

X 

The  Piper's  face  fell,  and  he  cried, 

"No  trifling!   I  can't  wait,  beside! 

I've  promised  to  visit  by  dinner-time' 

Bagdat,  and  accept  the  prime 

Of  the  Head-Cook's  pottage,  all  he's  rich  in, 

For  having  left,  in  the  caliph's  kitchen, 

Of  a  nest  of  scorpions  no  survivor. 

With  him  I  proved  no  bargain-driver; 

With  you,  don't  think  I'll  bate  a  stiver! 

And  folks  who  put  me  in  a  passion 

May  find  me  pipe  after  another  fashion!" 

XI 

"How!"  cried  the  Mayor,  "d'  ye  think  I'll  brook 
Being  worse  treated  than  a  cook? 


loo  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Insulted  by  a  lazy  ribald 
With  idle  pipe  and  vesture  piebald! 
You  threaten  us,  fellow!   Do  your  worst; 
Blow  your  pipe  there  till  you  burst!" 

XII 

Once  more  he  stept  into  the  street, 

And  to  his  lips  again 
Laid  his  long  pipe  of  smooth,  straight  cane; 

And  ere  he  blew  three  notes  (such  sweet 
Soft  notes  as  yet  musician's  cunning 

Never  gave  the  enraptured  air) 
There  was  a  rustling  that  seemed  like  a  bustling 
Of  merry  crowds  justling  at  pitching  and  hustling, 
Small  feet  were  pattering,  wooden  shoes  clattering, 
Little  hands  clapping  and  little  tongues  chattering, 
And,  like  fowls  in  a  farmyard  when  barley  is  scatter- 
ing. 
Out  came  the  children  running. 
And  all  the  little  boys  and  girls, 
With  rosy  cheeks  and  flaxen  curls, 
And  sparkling  eyes  and  teeth  like  pearls, 
Tripping  and  skipping  ran  merrily  after 
The  wonderful  music  with  shouting  and  laughter. 

XIII 

The  Mayor  was  dumb,  and  the  Council  stood 

As  if  they  were  changed  into  blocks  of  wood, 

Unable  to  move  a  step,  or  cry 

To  the  children  merrily  skipping  by, 

—  Could  only  follow  with  the  eye 


THE  PIED  PIPER  OF  HAMELIN  loi 

That  joyous  crowd  at  the  Piper's  back. 

And  now  the  Mayor  was  on  the  rack, 

And  the  wretched  Council's  bosoms  beat, 

As  the  Piper  turned  from  the  High  Street 

To  where  the  Weser  rolled  its  waters 

Right  in  the  way  of  their  sons  and  daughters! 

However,  he  turned  from  South  to  West, 

And  to  Koppelberg  Hill  his  steps  addressed, 

And  after  him  the  children  pressed; 

Great  was  the  joy  in  every  breast. 

"He  never  can  cross  that  mighty  top! 

He's  forced  to  let  the  piping  drop. 

And  we  shall  see  our  children  stop!'* 

When,  lo,  as  they  reached  the  mountain-side," 

A  wondrous  portal  opened  wide. 

As  if  a  cavern  was  suddenly  hollowed; 

And  the  Piper  advanced,  and  the  children  followed. 

And  when  all  were  in  to  the  very  last. 

The  door  in  the  mountain-side  shut  fast. 

Did  I  say  all?  No!  One  was  lame, 

And  could  not  dance  the  whole  of  the  way; 

And  in  after  years,  if  you  would  blame 

His  sadness,  he  was  used  to  say  — 

"It's  dull  in  our  town  since  my  playmates  left!. 

I  can't  forget  that  I'm  bereft 

Of  all  the  pleasant  sights  they  see, 

Which  the  Piper  also  promised  me : 

For  he  led  us,  he  said,  to  a  joyous  land, 

Joining  the  town  and  just  at  hand. 

Where  waters  gushed,  and  fruit-trees  grew 

And  flowers  put  forth  a  fairer  hue, 


I02  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

And  everything  was  strange  and  new; 

The  sparrows  were  brighter  than  peacocks  here, 

And  their  dogs  outran  our  fallow-deer, 

And  honey-bees  had  lost  their  stings, 

And  horses  were  born  with  eagles'  wings: 

And  just  as  I  became  assured 

My  lame  foot  would  be  speedily  cured,  ^ 

The  music  stopped,  and  I  stood  still, 

And  found  myself  outside  the  hill. 

Left  alone  against  my  will, 

To  go  now  limping  as  before. 

And  never  hear  of  that  country  morel** 

XIV 

Alas,  alas  for  Hamelin! 

There  came  into  many  a  burgher's  pate 

A  text  which  says  that  Heaven's  gate 

Opes  to  the  rich  at  as  easy  rate 
As  the  needle's  eye  takes  a  camel  in! 
The  Mayor  sent  East,  West,  North,  and  South, ' 
To  offer  the  Piper,  by  word  of  mouth, 

Wherever  it  was  man's  lot  to  find  him. 
Silver  and  gold  to  his  heart's  content, 
If  he'd  only  return  the  way  he  went, 

And  bring  the  children  behind  him. 
But  when  they  saw  't  was  a  lost  endeavour, 
And  Piper  and  dancers  were  gone  for  ever. 
They  made  a  decree  that  lawyers  never 

Should  think  their  records  dated  duly 
If,  after  the  day  of  the  month  and  the  year. 
These  words  did  not  as  well  appear; 


THE  PIED  PIPER  OF  HAMELIN  103 

"And  so  long  after  what  happened  here 

On  the  twenty-second  of  July, 
Thirteen  hundred  and  seventy-six:" 
And  the  better  in  memory  to  fix 
The  place  of  the  children's  last  retreat, 
They  called  it,  the  Pied  Piper's  Street  — 
Where  any  one  playing  on  pipe  or  tabor 
Was  sure  for  the  future  to  lose  his  labour. 
Nor  suffered  they  hostelry  or  tavern 

To  shock  with  mirth  a  street  so  solemn; 
But  opposite  the  place  of  the  cavern 

They  wrote  the  story  on  a  column, 
And  on  the  great  church-window  painted 
The  same,  to  make  the  world  acquainted 
How  their  children  were  stolen  away; 
And  there  it  stands  to  this  very  day. 
And  I  must  not  omit  to  say 
That  in  Transylvania  there's  a  tribe 
Of  alien  people  that  ascribe 
The  outlandish  ways  and  dress, 
On  which  their  neighbours  lay  such  stress, 
To  their  fathers  and  mothers  having  risen 
Out  of  some  subterraneous  prison 
Into  which  they  were  trepanned, 
Long  ago  in  a  mighty  band. 
Out  of  Hamelin  town  in  Brunswick  land. 
But  how  or  why,  they  don't  understand. 

XV 

So,  Willy,  let  you  and  me  be  wipers 

Of  scores  out  with  all  men  —  especially  pipers! 


104  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

And,  whether  they  pipe  us  free  from  rats  or  from  mice, 
If  we've  promised  them  aught,  let  us  keep  our  prom- 


ise! 


Robert  Browning 


PREPARATIONS 

Yet  if  His  Majesty,  our  sovereign  lord, 

Should  of  his  own  accord 

Friendly  himself  invite, 

And  say,  "I'll  be  your  guest  to-morrow  night"; 

How  should  we  stir  ourselves,  call  and  command 

All  hands  to  work!   "Let  no  man  idle  stand! 

"Set  me  fine  Spanish  tables  in  the  hall; 

See  they  be  fitted  all; 

Let  there  be  room  to  eat 

And  order  taken  that  there  want  no  meat. 

See  every  sconce  and  candlestick  made  bright. 

That  without  tapers  they  may  give  a  light. 

"Look  to  the  presence:  are  the  carpets  spread, 

The  dazie  o'er  the  head, 

The  cushions  in  the  chairs. 

And  all  the  candles  lighted  on  the  stairs? 

Perfume  the  chambers,  and  in  any  case 

Let  each  man  give  attendance  in  his  place.". 

Thus,  if  a  king  were  coming,  would  we  do; 
And  't  were  good  reason  too; 


PAN  105 

For  't  is  a  duteous  thing 
To  show  all  honour  to  an  earthly  king, 
And  after  all  our  travail  and  our  cost, 
So  he  be  pleased,  to  think  no  labour  lost. 

But  at  the  coming  of  the  King  of  Heaven 
All's  set  at  six  and  seven; 
We  wallow  in  our  sin, 
Christ  cannot  find  a  chamber  in  the  inn. 
We  entertain  him  always  like  a  stranger. 
And,  as  at  first,  still  lodge  him  in  the  manger. 

Anonymous 

NOW  THAT  THE  WINTER'S  GONE 

Now  that  the  winter's  gone,  the  earth  hath  lost 

Her  snow-white  robes,  and  now  no  more  the  frost 

Candies  the  grass,  or  culls  an  icy  cream 

Upon  the  silver  lake,  or  crystal  stream; 

But  the  warm  sun  thaws  the  benumb'd  earth 

And  makes  it  tender;  gives  a  second  birth 

To  the  dead  swallow;  wakes  in  hollow  tree 

The  drowsy  cuckoo,  and  the  humble  bee; 

Now  do  a  choir  of  chirping  minstrels  bring 

In  triumph  to  the  world  the  youthful  Spring. 

Thomas  Carew 

PAN 

Sing  his  praises  that  doth  keep 
Our  flocks  from  harm, 


io6  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Pan,  the  father  of  our  sheep; 

And  arm  in  arm 
Tread  we  softly  in  a  round, 
Whilst  the  hollow  neighbouring  ground 
Fills  the  music  with  her  sound. 

Pan,  0  great  god  Pan,  to  thee 

Thus  do  we  sing! 
Thou  who  keep'st  us  chaste  and  free 

As  the  young  spring: 
Ever  be  thy  honour  spoke, 
From  that  place  the  morn  is  broke, 
To  that  place  day  doth  unyoke! 

John  Fletcher 

TliE  LAPFUL  of  NUTS 

Whene'er  I  see  soft  hazel  eyes 

And  nut-brown  curls, 
I  think  of  those  bright  days  I  spent 

Among  the  Limerick  girls; 
When  up  through  Cratla  woods  I  went 

Nutting  with  thee, 
And  we  pluck'd  the  glossy  clustering  fruit 

From  many  a  bending  tree. 

Beneath  the  hazel  boughs  we  sat. 

Thou,  love,  and  I, 
And  the  gather'd  nuts  lay  in  thy  lap, 

Beneath  thy  downcast  eye; 


THE  DAFFODILS  107 

But  little  we  thought  of  the  store  we'd  won, 

I,  love,  or  thou; 
For  our  hearts  were  full,  and  we  dared  not  own 

The  love  that's  spoken  now. 

Oh,  there's  wars  for  willing  hearts  in  Spain, 

And  high  Germanic! 
And  I'll  come  back,  ere  long,  again 

With  knightly  fame  and  fee: 
And  I  '11  come  back,  if  I  ever  come  back, 

Faithful  to  thee, 
That  sat  with  thy  white  lap  full  of  nuts. 

Beneath  the  hazel-tree. 

Samuel  Ferguson 

MY  HEART  LEAPS  UP 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky: 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began. 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man, 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die! 
The  Child  is  father  of  the  Man: 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

William  Wordsworth 

THE  DAFFODILS 

I  WANDERED  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills. 


io8  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host,  of  golden  daffodils, 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 

They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay: 

Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance 

Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 
Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee: 

A  Poet  could  not  but  be  gay 
In  such  a  jocund  company! 

I  gazed  —  and  gazed  —  but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought: 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude; 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

William  Wordsworth 

THE  BEANFIELD 

A  BEANFIELD  in  blossom  smells  as  sweet 
As  Araby,  or  groves  of  orange  flowers; 


THE  MAN  OF  LIFE  UPRIGHT  109 

Black-eyed  and  white,  and  feathered  to  one's  feet, 
How  sweet  they  smell  in  morning's  dewy  hours. 
When  seething  night  is  left  upon  the  flowers. 
Another  morn's  sun  shines  brightly  o'er  the  field, 
The  bean  bloom  glitters  in  the  gems  of  showers, 
And  sweet  the  fragrance  which  the  union  yields 
To  battered  footpaths  crossing  o'er  the  fields. 

John  Clare 

A  SONG 

For  Mercy,  Courage,  Kindness,  Mirth,- 
There  is  no  measure  upon  earth. 
Nay,  they  wither,  root  and  stem, 
If  an  end  be  set  to  them. 

Overbrim  and  overflow, 
If  your  own  heart  you  would  know; 
For  the  spirit  born  to  bless 
Lives  but  in  its  own  excess. 

Laurence  Binyon 

THE  MAN  OF  LIFE  UPRIGHT 

The  man  of  life  upright. 
Whose  cheerful  mind  is  free 

From  weight  of  impious  deeds. 
And  yoke  of  vanity; 

The  man  whose  silent  days 
In  harmless  joys  are  spent, 


no  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Whom  hopes  cannot  delude, 
Nor  sorrows  discontent; 

That  man  needs  neither  towers, 
Nor  armour  for  defence, 

Nor  vaults  his  guilt  to  shroud 
From  thunder's  violence; 

He  only  can  behold 

With  unaffrighted  eyes 
The  horrors  of  the  deep, 

And  terrors  of  the  skies. 

Thus,  scorning  all  the  cares 
That  fate  or  fortune  brings, 

His  book  the  heavens  he  makes, 
His  wisdom  heavenly  things; 

Good  thoughts  his  surest  friends. 
His  wealth  a  well-spent  age, 

The  earth  his  sober  inn 
And  quiet  pilgrimage. 

,  Thomas  Campion 


LOVE'S  PHILOSOPHY 

The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river 
And  the  rivers  with  the  ocean. 

The  winds  of  heaven  mix  for  ever 
With  a  sweet  emotion; 


TO  LUCASTA,  GOING  TO  THE  WARS  in 

Nothing  in  the  world  is  single, 

All  things  by  a  law  divine 
In  one  another's  being  mingle  — 

Why  not  I  with  thine? 

See  the  mountains  kiss  high  heaven 

And  the  waves  clasp  one  another; 
No  sister-flower  would  be  forgiven 

If  it  disdain'd  its  brother: 
And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth, 

And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea  — 
What  are  all  these  kissings  worth. 

If  thou  kiss  not  me? 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

TO  LUCASTA,  GOING  TO  THE  WARS 

Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind, 
I     That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind 
To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

True:  a  new  Mistress  now  I  chase, 

The  first  foe  in  the  field; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such. 

As  you  too  shall  adore; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 

Lov'd  I  not  Honour  more. 

Richard  Lovelace 


112  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY' 


SHE  DWELT  AMONG  THE  UNTRODDEN 

WAYS 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  Maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise 

And  very  few  to  love: 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone  '' 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye! 
—  Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 

Is  shining  In  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  oh, 

The  difference  to  me! 

William  Wordsworth 

('THE  POET'S  DREAM 

On  a  poet's  lips  I  slept 

Dreaming  like  a  love-adept 

In  the  sound  his  breathing  kept; 

Nor  seeks  nor  finds  he  mortal  blisses, 

But  feeds  on  the  aerial  kisses 

Of  shapes  that  haunt  thought's  wildernesses. 

He  will  watch  from  dawn  to  gloom 

The  lake-reflected  sun  illume 

The  yellow  bees  in  the  ivy-bloom, 


SWEET  PEACE  113 

Nor  heed  nor  see  what  things  they  be; 
But  from  these  create  he  can 
Forms  more  real  than  living  man, 

NursHngs  of  immortahty! 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


THE  WORLD 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers: 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours; 

We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon! 

This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours. 
And  are  up-gather'd  now  like  sleeping  flowers; 

For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune; 

It  moves  us  not.  —  Great  God!  I'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn; 

So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 

Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn; 

Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

William  Wordsworth 


SWEET  PEACE 

My  soul,  there  Is  a  country 
Far  beyond  the  stars, 

Where  stands  a  winged  sentry 
All  skilful  in  the  wars. 


114  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

There,  above  noise  and  danger, 

Sweet  Peace  sits  crowned  with  smiles, 
And  One  born  in  a  manger 

Commands  the  beauteous  files. 
He  is  thy  gracious  Friend, 

And  —  O  my  soul,  awake!  — 
Did  in  pure  love  descend 

To  die  here  for  thy  sake. 
If  thou  canst  get  but  thither, 

There  grows  the  flower  of  Peace, 
The  rose  that  cannot  wither, 

Thy  fortress  and  thy  ease. 
Leave  then  thy  foolish  ranges; 

For  none  can  thee  secure 
But  One  who  never  changes  — 

Thy  God,  thy  life,  thy  cure. 

Henry  Vaughan 

THE  CHARACTER  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 
That  serveth  not  another's  will; 

Whose  armour  is  his  honest  thought, 
And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill; 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are; 

Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death. 
Untied  unto  the  world  by  care 

Of  public  fame  or  private  breath; 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise. 
Nor  vice;  who  never  understood 


DEATH  STANDS  ABOVE  ME  115 

How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  praise, 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good; 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumours  freed; 

Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat; 
Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 

Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  great. 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  his  grace  than  gifts  to  lend; 

And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  religious  book  or  friend. 

This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 

Of  hope  to  rise  or  fear  to  fall: 
Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands, 

And,  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 

Sir  Henry  Wotton 

ON  HIS  SEVENTY-FIFTH  BIRTHDAY 

I  STROVE  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my  strife, 
Nature  I  loved,  and  next  to  Nature,  Art; 

I  warmed  both  hands  before  the  fire  of  life: 
It  sinks,  and  I  am  ready  to  depart. 

Walter  Savage  Landor 

DEATH  STANDS  ABOVE  ME 

Death  stands  above  me,  whispering  low 
I  know  not  what  into  my  ear. 


ii6  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Of  his  strange  language  all  I  know 
Is,  there  is  not  a  word  of  fear. 

Walter  Savage  Landor 

THE  THRUSH'S  NEST 

Within  a  thick  and  spreading  hawthorn  bush, 

That  overhung  a  molehill  large  and  round, 
I  heard  from  morn  to  morn  a  merry  thrush 

Sing  hymns  to  sunrise,  and  I  drank  the  sound 
With  joy;  and  often,  an  intruding  guest, 

I  watched  her  secret  toil  from  day  to  day  — 
How  true  she  warped  the  moss,  to  form  a  nest, 

And  modelled  it  within  with  wood  and  clay; 
And  by-and-by,  like  heath-bells  gilt  with  dew, 

There  lay  her  shining  eggs,  as  bright  as  flowers, 
Ink-spotted  over  shells  of  greeny  blue; 

And  there  I  witnessed  in  the  sunny  hours, 
A  brood  of  Nature's  minstrels  chirp  and  fly. 
Glad  as  the  sunshine  and  the  laughing  sky. 

John  Clare 

THE  DANCING  SEAL 

When  we  were  building  Skua  Light  — 
The  first  men  who  had  lived  a  night 
Upon  that  deep-sea  Isle  — 
As  soon  as  chisel  touched  the  stone, 
The  friendly  seals  would  come  ashore; 
And  sit  and  watch  us  all  the  while. 
As  though  they'd  not  seen  men  before; 


THE  DANCING  SEAL  117 

And  so,  poor  beasts,  had  never  known 
Alen  had  the  heart  to  do  them  harm. 
They'd  little  cause  to  feel  alarm 
With  us,  for  we  were  glad  to  find 
Some  friendliness  in  that  strange  sea; 
Only  too  pleased  to  let  them  be 
And  sit  as  long  as  they'd  a  mind 
To  watch  us;  for  their  eyes  were  kind 
Like  women's  eyes,  it  seemed  to  me. 

So,  hour  on  hour,  they  sat:  I  think 
They  liked  to  hear  the  chisel's  clink: 
And  when  the  boy  sang  loud  and  clear, 
They  scrambled  closer  in  to  hear; 
And  if  he  whistled  sweet  and  shrill, 
The  queer  beasts  shuffled  nearer  still. 
But  every  sleek  and  sheeny  skin 
Was  mad  to  hear  his  violin. 


When,  work  all  over  for  the  day, 
He'd  take  his  fiddle  down  and  play 
His  merry  tunes  beside  the  sea. 
Their  eyes  grew  brighter  and  more  bright, 
And  burned  and  twinkled  merrily: 
And  as  I  watched  them  one  still  night, 
And  saw  their  eager  sparkling  eyes, 
I  felt  those  lively  seals  would  rise 
Some  shiny  night  ere  he  could  know, 
And  dance  about  him,  heel  and  toe, 
Unto  the  fiddle's  heady  tune. 


ii8  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

And  at  the  rising  of  the  moon, 
Half-daft,  I  took  my  stand  before 
A  young  seal  lying  on  the  shore; 
And  called  on  her  to  dance  with  me. 
And  it  seemed  hardly  strange  when  she 
Stood  up  before  me  suddenly. 
And  shed  her  black  and  sheeny  skin; 
And  smiled,  all  eager  to  begin  .  .  . 
And  I  was  dancing,  heel  and  toe, 
With  a  young  maiden  white  as  snow, 
Unto  a  crazy  violin. 

We  danced  beneath  the  dancing  moon, 

All  night,  beside  the  dancing  sea, 

With  tripping  toes  and  skipping  heels: 

And  all  about  us  friendly  seals 

Like  Christian  folk  were  dancing  reels 

Unto  the  fiddle's  endless  tune 

That  kept  on  spinning  merrily 

As  though  it  never  meant  to  stop. 

And  never  once  the  snow-white  maid 

A  moment  stayed 

To  take  a  breath, 

Though  I  was  fit  to  drop: 

And  while  those  wild  eyes  challenged  me, 

I  knew  as  well  as  well  could  be 

I  must  keep  step  with  that  young  girl, 

Though  we  should  dance  to  death. 

Then  with  a  skirl 
The  fiddle  broke: 


THE  DONKEY  119 

The  moon  went  out: 

The  sea  stopped  dead: 

And,  in  a  twinkling,  all  the  rout 

Of  dancing  folk  had  fled  .  .  . 

And  in  the  chill,  bleak  dawn  I  woke' 

Upon  the  naked  rock,  alone. 

They've  brought  me  far  from  Skua  Isle  .  .  • 

I  laugh  to  think  they  do  not  know  ' 

That  as,  all  day,  I  chip  the  stone, 

Among  my  fellows  here  inland, 

I  smell  the  sea-wrack  on  the  shore  . , 

And  see  her  snowy  tossing  hand. 

And  meet  again  her  merry  smile  .  . 

And  dream  I'm  dancing  all  the  while,  1 

I'm  dancing  ever,  heel  and  toe. 

With  a  seal-maiden,  white  as  snow, 

On  that  moonshiny  Island-strand, 

For  ever  and  for  evermore. 

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 


THE  DONKEY 

When  fishes  flew  and  forests  walked 

And  figs  grew  upon  thorn. 
Some  moment  when  the  moon  was  blood 

Then  surely  I  was  born; 

With  monstrous  head  and  sickening  cry 
And  ears  like  errant  wings, 


120  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

The  devil's  walking  parody 
On  all  four-footed  things. 

The  tattered  outlaw  of  the  earth, 

Of  ancient  crooked  will; 
Starve,  scourge,  deride  me:  I  am  dumb, 

I  keep  my  secret  still. 

Fools!  For  I  also  had  my  hour; 

One  far  fierce  hour  and  sweet: 
There  was  a  shout  about  my  ears, 

And  palms  before  my  feet. 

G.  K.  Chesterton 


THE  TIGER 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
(What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burnt  the  ardour  of  thine  eyes? 
On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire  — 
What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire? 

And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart? 
And  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 
What  dread  hand  form'd  thy  dread  feet? 


NETTED  STR.\WBERRIES  121 

What  the  hammer,  what  the  chain, 

In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain? 

Did  God  smile  his  work  to  see? 

Did  He  who  made  the  lamb  make  thee? 

William  Blake 

NETTED  STRAWBERRIES 

I  AM  a  willow-wren: 

I  twitter  in  the  grass  on  the  chimney-top; 
The  apples  far  below  will  never  drop 
Or  turn  quite  bright,  though  when 

The  aimless  wind  is  still 

I  stand  upon  the  big  ones  and  I  peck 

And  find  soft  places,  leaving  spot  and  speck 

When  I  have  munched  my  fill. 

Apples  and  plums  I  know 
(Plums  are  dark  weights  and  full  of  golden  rain 
That  wets  neck-feathers  when  I  dip  and  strain, 
And  stickles  each  plumy  row). 

But  past  my  well-kept  trees 

The  quick  small  woman  in  her  puffy  gown, 

That  flutters  as  if  its  sleeves  and  skirts  had  grown 

For  flying  and  airy  ease, 

Has  planted  little  bushes 

Of  large  cool  leaves  that  cover  and  shade  and  hide 
Things  redder  than  plums  and  with  gold  dimples  pied 
Dropping  on  new-cut  rushes. 


122  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

At  first  I  thought  with  spite 
Such  heady  scent  was  only  a  flower's  wide  cup; 
But  flower-scents  never  made  my  throat  close  up, 
And  so  I  stood  in  my  flight. 

Yet  over  all  there  sways 
A  web  like  those  revealed  by  dawn  and  dew. 
But  not  like  those  that  break  and  let  me  through 
Shivering  the  drops  all  ways. 

Though  I  alight  and  swing 

I  never  reach  the  things  that  tumble  and  crush, 
And  if  I  had  such  long  large  legs  as  a  thrush 
The  web  would  tangle  and  cling. 

Gordon  Bottomley 


EPITAPH  ON  A  HARE 

Here  lies,  whom  hound  did  ne'er  pursue. 
Nor  swifter  greyhound  follow, 

Whose  foot  ne'er  tainted  morning  dew, 
Nor  ear  heard  huntsman's  halloo; 

Old  Tiney,  surliest  of  his  kind. 
Who,  nursed  with  tender  care. 

And  to  domestic  bounds  confined. 
Was  still  a  wild  Jack  hare. 

Though  duly  from  my  hand  he  took 
His  pittance  every  night, 


"» 


EPITAPH  ON  A  HARE  113 

He  did  it  with  a  jealous  look, 
And  when  he  could,  would  bite. 

His  diet  was  of  wheaten  bread, 

And  milk,  and  oats,  and  straw; 
Thistles,  or  lettuces  instead, 

With  sand  to  scour  his  maw. 

On  twigs  of  hawthorn  he  regaled, 

On  pippin's  russet  peel. 
And,  when  his  juicy  salads  failed, 

Sliced  carrot  pleased  him  well. 

A  Turkey  carpet  was  his  lawn, 

Whereon  he  loved  to  bound, 
To  skip  and  gambol  like  a  fawn. 

And  swing  his  rump  around. 

His  frisking  was  at  evening  hours. 

For  then  he  lost  his  fear, 
But  most  before  approaching  showers. 

Or  when  a  storm  drew  near. 

Eight  years  and  five  round-rolling  moons 

He  thus  saw  steal  away. 
Dozing  out  all  his  idle  noons, 

And  every  night  at  play. 

I  kept  him  for  his  humour's  sake. 

For  he  would  oft  beguile 
My  heart  of  thoughts  that  made  it  ache. 

And  force  me  to  a  smile. 


124  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

But  now  beneath  this  walnut  shade 
He  finds  his  long  last  home, 

And  waits,  in  snug  concealment  laid 
Till  gentler  Puss  shall  come. 

He,  still  more  aged,  feels  the  shocks 
From  which  no  care  can  save. 

And,  partner  once  of  Tiney's  box, 
Must  soon  partake  his  grave. 

William  Cowper 


/ 


./ 


^O  THE  LARK 


Good  speed,  for  I  this  day 
Betimes  my  matins  say, 

Because  I  do 

Begin  to  woo. 

Sweet  singing  lark, 

Be  thou  the  clerk, 

And  know  thy  when 

To  say  Amen. 

And  if  I  prove 

Blest  in  my  love, 

Then  thou  shalt  be 

High  Priest  to  me, 

At  my  return 

To  incense  burn. 
And  so  to  solemnise 
Love's  and  my  sacrifice. 

Robert  Herrick 


SYLVIA  MS 


THE  OXEN 

Christmas  Eve,  and  twelve  of  the  clock. 

"Now  they  are  all  on  their  knees," 
An  elder  said  as  we  sat  in  a  flock 

By  the  embers  in  hearthside  ease. 

We  pictured  the  meek  mild  creatures  where 
They  dwelt  in  their  strawy  pen, 

Nor  did  it  occur  to  one  of  us  there 
To  doubt  they  were  kneeling  then. 

So  fair  a  fancy  few  would  weave 

In  these  years!  Yet,  I  feel. 
If  some  one  said  on  Christmas  Eve, 

"Come;  see  the  oxen  kneel 

"  In  the  lonely  barton  by  yonder  coomb 

Our  childhood  used  to  know," 
I  should  go  with  him  in  the  gloom, 

Hoping  it  might  be  so. 

Thomas  Hardy 

SYLVIA 

Who  is  Sylvia?  what  is  she, 

That  all  our  swains  commend  her? 

Holy,  fair,  and  wise  is  she; 

The  heaven  such  grace  did  lend  her, 

That  she  might  admired  be. 


126  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Is  she  kind  as  she  is  fair? 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness, 
Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair, 

To  help  him  of  his  blindness, 
And,  being  help'd,  inhabits  there. 

Then  to  Sylvia  let  us  sing, 

That  Sylvia  is  excelling; 
She  excels  each  mortal  thing 

Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling: 
To  her  let  us  garlands  bring. 

William  Shakespeare 


NURSE'S  SONG 

When  the  voices  of  children  are  heard  on  the  green, 

And  laughing  is  heard  on  the  hill, 
My  heart  is  at  rest  within  my  breast. 

And  everything  else  is  still. 

"Then  come  home,  my  children,  the  sun  is  gone 
down, 

And  the  dews  of  night  arise; 
Come,  come,  leave  off  play,  and  let  us  away 

Till  the  morning  appears  in  the  skies." 

"No,  no,  let  us  play,  for  it  is  yet  day, 

And  we  cannot  go  to  sleep; 
Besides,  in  the  sky  the  Httle  birds  fly. 

And  the  hills  are  all  cover'd  with  sheep." 


SWEET  AND  LOW  127 

"Well,  well,  go  and  play  till  the  light  fades  away, 

And  then  go  home  to  bed." 
The  little  ones  leap'd  and  shouted  and  laugh'd, 

And  all  the  hills  echoed. 

William  Blake 


SONG  FROM  "PIPPA  PASSES 


» 


The  year 's  at  the  spring 
And  day  's  at  the  morn; 
Morning  's  at  seven; 
The  hill-side's  dew-pearled; 
The  lark's  on  the  wing; 
The  snail's  on  the  thorn: 
God's  in  his  heaven  — 
All's  right  with  the  world! 

Robert  Browning 

SWEET  AND  LOW 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  seal 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 
Come  from  the  dropping  moon,  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me; 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one  sleeps.] 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 
Father  will  come  to  thee  soon; 


128  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon; 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 

Under  the  silver  moon: 
Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one,  sleep, 

Alfred  Tennyson 


SONG 

How  sweet  I  roam'd  from  field  to  field 
And  tasted  all  the  summer's  pride, 

Till  I  the  prince  of  love  beheld 

Who  in  the  sunny  beams  did  glide! 

He  show'd  me  lilies  for  my  hair, 
And  blushing  roses  for  my  brow; 

He  led  me  through  his  gardens  fair 
Where  all  his  golden  pleasures  grow. 

With  sweet  May  dews  my  wings  were  wet. 
And  Phoebus  fired  my  vocal  rage; 

He  caught  me  in  his  silken  net. 
And  shut  me  in  his  golden  cage. 

He  loves  to  sit  and  hear  me  sing, 

Then,  laughing,  sports  and  plays  with  me; 
Then  stretches  out  my  golden  wing. 

And  mocks  my  loss  of  liberty. 

William  Blake 


ROUNDELAY  129 


ROUNDELAY 

O  SING  unto  my  roundelay, 

O  drop  the  briny  tear  with  me, 

Dance  no  more  at  holy-day, 

Like  a  running  river  be. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Black  his  locks  as  the  winter  night, ' 
White  his  skin  as  the  summer  snow, 
Red  his  face  as  the  morning  light. 
Cold  he  lies  in  the  grave  below. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Sweet  his  tongue  as  the  throstle's  note, 

Quick  in  dance  as  thought  can  be. 

Deft  his  tabor,  cudgel  stout, 

O  he  lies  by  the  willow-tree! 
My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Hark!  the  raven  flaps  his  wing 
In  the  briar'd  dell  below; 
Hark!  the  death-owl  loud  doth  sing 
To  the  nightmares  as  they  go. 


130  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 


See!  the  white  moon  shines  on  high; 

Whiter  is  my  true  love's  shroud; 

Whiter  than  the  morning  sky, 

Whiter  than  the  evening  cloud. 
My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Here  upon  my  true  love's  grave 

Shall  the  barren  flowers  be  laid; 

Not  one  holy  Saint  to  save 

All  the  coldness  of  a  maid! 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

With  my  hands  I'll  gird  the  briars 

Round  his  holy  corse  to  grow. 

Elfin  Faery,  light  your  fires; 

Here  my  body  still  shall  bow. 
My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Come,  with  acorn-cup  and  thorn, 
Drain  my  hearte's  blood  away; 


IN  LADY  STREET  131 

Life  and  all  its  good  I  scorn, 
Dance  by  night  or  feast  by  day. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Thomas  Chatterton 

LAUGHING  SONG 

When  the  green  woods  laugh  with  the  voice  ot  joy, 

And  the  dimpling  stream  runs  laughing  by; 
When  the  air  does  laugh  with  our  merry  wit. 
And  the  green  hill  laughs  with  the  noise  of  it; 

When  the  meadows  laugh  with  lively  green. 
And  the  grasshopper  laughs  in  the  merry  scene, 
When  Mary  and  Susan  and  Emily 
With  their  sweet  round  mouths  sing  "Ha,  Ha,  Hel" 

When  the  painted  birds  laugh  in  the  shade. 
Where  our  tabic  with  cherries  and  nuts  is  spread, 
Come  live,  and  be  merry,  and  join  with  me. 
To  sing  the  sweet  chorus  of  "Ha,  Ha,  He!" 

William  Blake 

IN  LADY  STREET 

All  day  long  the  traffic  goes 

In  Lady  Street  by  dingy  rows 

Of  sloven  houses,  tattered  shops  — 

Fried  fish,  old  clothes,  and  fortune-tellers  — 


132  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Tall  trams  on  silver-shining  rails> 

With  grinding  wheels  and  swaying  tops, 

And  lorries  with  their  corded  bales, 

And  screeching  cars.   "Buy,  buy!"  the  sellers 

Of  rags  and  bones  and  sickening  meat 

Cry  all  day  long  in  Lady  Street. 

And  when  the  sunshine  has  its  way 
In  Lady  Street,  then  all  the  gray 
Dull  desolation  grows  in  state 
More  dull  and  gray  and  desolate, 
And  the  sun  is  a  shamefast  thing, 
A  lord  not  comely-housed,  a  god, 
Seeing  what  gods  must  blush  to  see, 
A  song  where  it  is  ill  to  sing. 
And  each  gold  ray  despiteously 
Lies  like  a  gold  ironic  rod. 

Yet  one  gray  man  in  Lady  Street 
Looks  for  the  sun.   He  never  bent 
Life  to  his  will,  his  travelling  feet 
Have  scaled  no  cloudy  continent, 
Nor  has  the  sickle-hand  been  strong. 
He  lives  in  Lady  Street;  a  bed, 
Four  cobwebbed  walls. 

But  all  day  long 
A  time  is  singing  in  his  head 
Of  youth  in  Gloucester  lanes.   He  hears 
The  wind  among  the  barley-blades, 
The  tapping  of  the  woodpeckers 


IN  LADY  STREET  133 

On  the  smooth  beeches,  thistle-spades 
Slicing  the  sinewy  roots;  he  sees 
The  hooded  filberts  in  the  copse 
Beyond  the  loaded  orchard  trees, 
The  netted  avenues  of  hops; 
He  smells  the  honeysuckle  thrown 
Along  the  hedge.   He  lives  alone, 
Alone  —  yet  not  alone,  for  sweet 
Are  Gloucester  lanes  in  Lady  Street. 

Ay,  Gloucester  lanes.  For  down  below 

The  cobwebbed  room  this  gray  man  plies 

A  trade,  a  coloured  trade.   A  show 

Of  many-coloured  merchandise 

Is  in  his  shop.   Brown  filberts  there, 

And  apples  red  with  Gloucester  air, 

And  cauliflowers  he  keeps,  and  round 

Smooth  marrows  grown  on  Gloucester  ground, 

Fat  cabbages  and  yellow  plums. 

And  gaudy  brave  chrysanthemums. 

And  times  a  glossy  pheasant  lies 

Among  his  store,  not  Tyrian  dyes 

More  rich  than  are  the  neck-feathers; 

And  times  a  prize  of  violets, 

Or  dewy  mushrooms  satin-skinned. 

And  times  an  unfamiliar  wind 

Robbed  of  its  woodland  favour  stirs 

Gay  daflodils  this  gray  man  sets 

Among  his  treasure. 

All  day  long 
In  Lady  Street  the  traffic  goes 


134  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

By  dingy  houses,  desolate  rows 
Of  shops  that  stare  like  hopeless  eyes. 
Day  long  the  sellers  cry  their  cries. 
The  fortune-tellers  tell  no  wrong 
Of  lives  that  know  not  any  right, 
And  drift,  that  has  not  even  the  will 
To  drift,  toils  through  the  day  until 
The  wage  of  sleep  is  won  at  night. 
But  this  gray  man  heeds  not  at  all 
The  hell  of  Lady  Street.   His  stall 
Of  many-coloured  merchandise 
He  makes  a  shining  paradise, 
As  all  day  long  chrysanthemums 
He  sells,  and  red  and  yellow  plums 
And  cauliflowers.   In  that  one  spot 
Of  Lady  Street  the  sun  is  not 
;  Ashamed  to  shine  and  send  a  rare 
Shower  of  colour  through  the  air; 
The  gray  man  says  the  sun  is  sweet 
On  Gloucester  lanes  in  Lady  Street. 

John  Drinkwater 


DEAR  IS  MY  LITTLE  NATIVE  VALE 

Dear  is  my  little  native  vale> 

The  ring-dove  builds  and  murmurs  there;; 
Close  by  my  cot  she  tells  her  tale 

To  every  passing  villager; 
The  squirrel  leaps  from  tree  to  tree. 
And  shells  his  nuts  at  liberty. 


UPON  WESTMINSTER  BRIDGE  IJS 

In  orange-groves  and  myrtle-bowers, 
That  breathe  a  gale  of  fragrance  round, 

I  charm  the  fairy-footed  hours 

With  my  loved  lute's  romantic  sound; 

Or  crowns  of  living  laurel  weave 

For  those  that  win  the  race  at  eve. 

The  shepherd's  horn  at  break  of  day, 
The  ballet  danced  in  twilight  glade, 

The  canzonet  and  roundelay 

Sung  in  the  silent  greenwood  shade: 

These  simple  joys,  that  never  fail, 

Shall  bind  me  to  my  native  vale. 

Samuel  Rogers 

UPON  WESTMINSTER  BRIDGE 

Sept.  3,  1802 
Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair: 

Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 

A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty: 
This  City  now  doth  like  a  garment  wear 

The  beauty  of  the  morning:  silent,  bare, 

Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky, 

All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 

Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 

In  his  first  splendour  valley,  rock,  or  hill; 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep! 


136  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will: 
Dear  God!  the  very  houses  seem  asleep; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still! 

William  Wordsworth 

LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI 

**0  WHAT  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms. 

Alone  and  palely  loitering? 
The  sedge  has  wither'd  from  the  Lake, 

And  no  birds  sing. 

**0  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms, 
So  haggard  and  so  woebegone? 

The  squirrel's  granary  is  full, 
And  the  harvest's  done. 

"I  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever  dew," 
And  on  thy  cheeks  a  fading  rose 

Fast  withereth  too." 

"I  met  a  Lady  in  the  Meads, 
Full  beautiful  —  a  fairy's  child. 

Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light, ' 
And  her  eyes  were  wild. 

"I  made  a  garland  for  her  head, 

And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone; 

She  look'd  at  me  as  she  did  love, 
And  made  sweet  moan. 


LA  BELLE  DAJvlE  SANS  MERCI  137 

**I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed 

And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long, 

For  sidelong  would  she  bend,  and  sing 
A  fairy's  song. 

"She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet, 
And  honey  wild  and  manna  dew, 

And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said 
*I  love  thee  true.' 

"She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot. 

And  there  she  wept,  and  sigh'd  full  sore, 
And  there  I  shut  her  wild  wild  eyes 

With  kisses  four. 

"And  there  she  lulled  me  asleep, 

And  there  I  dream'd  —  Ah!  woe  betide! 

The  latest  dream  I  ever  dreamt 
On  the  cold  hill-side. 

"I  saw  pale  Kings  and  Princes  too, 

Pale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all; 

They  cried  —  '  La  belle  Dame  sans  Merci 
Hath  thee  in  thrall! ' 

**I  saw  their  starved  lips  in  the  gloam 
With  horrid  warning  gaped  wide, 

And  I  awoke  and  found  me  here 
On  the  cold  hill's  side. 


4t 


And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here 
Alone  and  palely  loitering, 


138  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Though  the  sedge  is  wither'd  from  the  Lake 
And  no  birds  sing." 

John  Keats 


THE  MAD  MAID'S  SONG 

GooD-MORROw  to  the  day  so  fair; 

Good-morning,  sir,  to  you; 
Good-morrow  to  mine  own  torn  hair. 

Bedabbled  with  the  dew. 

Good-morning  to  this  primrose  too; 

Good-morrow  to  each  maid; 
That  will  with  flowers  the  tomb  bestrew 

Wherein  my  Love  is  laid. 

Ah!  woe  is  me,  woe,  woe  is  me, 

Alack  and  well-a-day! 
For  pity,  sir,  find  out  that  bee, 

Which  bore  my  Love  away. 

I'll  seek  him  in  your  bonnet  brave; 

I'll  seek  him  in  your  eyes; 
Nay,  now  I  think  they've  made  his  grave 

I'  th'  bed  of  strawberries. 

I'll  seek  him  there;  I  know,  ere  this, 
The  cold,  cold  earth  doth  shake  him; 

But  I  will  go,  or  send  a  kiss 
By  you,  sir,  to  awake  him. 


OVERHEARD  ON  A  SALTMARSH  139 

Pray  hurt  him  not;  though  he  be  dead, 

He  knows  well  who  do  love  him; 
And  who  with  green  turfs  rear  his  head. 

And  who  do  rudely  move  him. 

He's  soft  and  tender,  pray  take  heed, 
With  bands  of  cowslips  bind  him, 

And  bring  him  home;  —  but  't  is  decreed 
That  I  shall  never  find  him. 

Robert  Herrick 


OVERHEARD  ON  A  SALTMARSH 

Nymph,  nymph,  what  are  your  beads.'' 

Green  glass,  goblin.   Why  do  you  stare  at  them  ? 

Give  them  me. 

No. 
Give  them  me.  Give  them  me. 

No. 
Then  I  will  howl  all  night  in  the  reeds, 
Lie  in  the  mud  and  howl  for  them. 

Goblin,  why  do  you  love  them  so? 

They  are  better  than  stars  or  water, 
Better  than  voices  of  winds  that  sing, 
Better  than  any  man's  fair  daughter, 
Your  green  glass  beads  on  a  silver  ring. 

Hush,  I  stole  them  out  of  the  moon. 


I40  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Give  me  your  beads,  I  desire  them. 

I  will  howl  in  a  deep  lagoon 

For  your  green  glass  beads,  I  love  them  so. 

Give  them  me.  Give  them. 

No. 
Harold  Monro 

O  CAPTAIN!  MY  CAPTAIN! 

O  Captain!  my  Captain!  our  fearful  trip  is  done. 
The  ship  has  weather'd  every  rack,  the   prize  we 

sought  is  won, 
The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all  exult- 
ing, 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim  and 
daring; 
But  O  heart!  heart!  heart! 
O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red! 

Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

O  Captain!  my  Captain!  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells; 
Rise  up  —  for  you  the  flag  is  flung  —  for  you  the 

bugle  trills, 
For  you  bouquets  and  ribbon'd  wreaths  —  for  you 

the  shores  crowding, 
For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces 
turning; 
Here,  Captain!  dear  father! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head! 


A  JACOBITE'S  EPITAPH  141 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck 
You  've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and 

still, 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor 

will; 
The  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed 

and  done, 
From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  ob- 
ject won; 
Exult,  O  shores!  and  ring,  O  bells! 
But  I,  with  mournful  tread, 

Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

Walt  Whitman 

A  JACOBITE'S  EPITAPH 

To  my  true  king  I  offered  free  from  stain 
Courage  and  faith;  vain  faith,  and  courage  vain. 
For  him  I  threw  lands,  honours,  wealth,  away, 
And  one  dear  hope,  that  was  more  prized  than  they. 
For  him  I  languished  in  a  foreign  clime. 
Grey-haired  with  sorrow  in  my  manhood's  prime; 
Heard  on  Lavernia  Scargill's  whispering  trees, 
And  pined  by  Arno  for  my  lovelier  Tees; 
Beheld  each  night  my  home  in  fevered  sleep. 
Each  morning  started  from  the  dream  to  weep; 
Till  God,  who  saw  me  tried  too  sorely,  gave 
The  resting-place  I  asked,  an  early  grave. 


142  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

O  thou,  whom  chance  leads  to  this  nameless  stone, 
From  that  proud  country  which  was  once  mine  own, 
By  those  white  cliffs  I  never  more  must  see. 
By  that  dear  language  which  I  spake  like  thee, 
Forget  all  feuds,  and  shed  one  English  tear 
O'er  English  dust.   A  broken  heart  lies  here. 

Lord  JVIacaulay 


DRAKE'S  DRUM 

Drake  he's  in  his  hammock  an'  a  thousand  mile 
away, 

(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin'  there  below?) 
Slung  atween  the  round  shot  in  Nombre  Dios  Bay, 

An'  dreamin'  arl  the  time  o'  Plymouth  Hoe. 
Yarnder  lumes  the  Island,  yarnder  lie  the  ships, 

Wi'  sailor  lads  a  dancin'  heel-an'-toe, 
An'    the    shore-lights    flashin',    an'    the    night-tide 
dashin', 

He  sees  et  arl  so  plainly  as  he  saw  et  long  ago. 

Drake  he  was  Devon  man,  an'  ruled  the  Devon  seas, 

(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin'  there  below?) 
Rovin'  tho'  his  death  fell,  he  went  wi'  heart  at  ease, 

An'  dreamin'  arl  the  time  o'  Plymouth  Hoe. 
"Take  my  drum  to  England,  hang  et  by  the  shore, 

Strike  et  when  your  powder's  runnin'  low; 
If  the  Dons  sight  Devon,  I  '11  quit  the  port  o'  Heaven, 

An'  drum  them  up  the  Channel  as  we  drummed 
them  long  ago." 


A  WET  SHEET  AND  A  FLOWING  SEA     143 

Drake  he's  in  his  hammock  till  the  great  Armadas 
come, 
(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin'  there  below?) 
Slung  atween  the  round  shot,  listenin'  for  the  drum, 

An'  dreamin'  arl  the  time  o'  Plymouth  Hoe. 
Call  him  on  the  deep  sea,  call  him  up  the  Sound, 

Call  him  when  ye  sail  to  meet  the  foe; 
When  the  old  trade's  plyin'  an'  the  old  flag  fly  in', 
They  shall  find  him  ware  an'  wakin',  as  they  found 
him  long  ago, 

Henry  Newbolt 

A  WET  SHEET  AND  A  FLOWING  SEA 

A  WET  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, 

A  wind  that  follows  fast. 
And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail, 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast; 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 

W'hile,  like  the  eagle  free, 
Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 

Old  England  on  the  lee. 

O  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind! 

I  heard  a  fair  one  cry; 
But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breeze, 

And  white  waves  heaving  high; 
And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  boys, 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free  — 
The  world  of  waters  is  our  home, 

And  merry  men  are  we. 


144  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

There's  tempest  in  yon  horned  moon, 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud; 
And  hark  the  music,  mariners! 

The  wind  is  piping  loud; 
The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys, 

The  lightning  flashing  free  — 
While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is, 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 

Allan  Cunningham 


THE  BAYLIFFE'S  DAUGHTER  OF 
ISLINGTON 

There  was  a  youth,  a  well-beloved  youth, 

And  he  was  a  squire's  son; 
He  loved  the  bayliffe's  daughter  dear. 

That  lived  in  Islington. 

Yet  she  was  coy  and  would  not  believe 

That  he  did  love  her  so, 
No  nor  at  any  time  would  she 

Any  countenance  to  him  show. 

But  when  his  friends  did  understand 

His  fond  and  foolish  mind. 
They  sent  him  up  to  faire  London 

An  apprentice  for  to  bind. 

And  when  he  had  been  seven  long  years, 
And  never  his  love  could  see: 


BAYLIFFE'S  DAUGHTER  OF  ISLINGTON    145 

Many  a  tear  have  I  shed  for  her  sake, 
When  she  Httle  thought  of  me. 

Then  all  the  maids  of  IsHngton 

Went  forth  to  sport  and  play, 
All  but  the  bayliffe's  daughter  dear; 

She  secretly  stole  away. 

She  pulled  off  her  gown  of  green, 

And  put  on  ragged  attire, 
And  to  faire  London  she  would  go 

Her  true  love  to  inquire. 

And  as  she  went  along  the  high  road. 

The  weather  being  hot  and  dry, 
She  sat  her  down  upon  a  green  bank, 

And  her  true  love  came  riding  bye. 

She  started  up,  with  a  colour  so  redd, 
Catching  hold  of  his  bridle-reine; 

One  penny,  one  penny,  kind  sir,  she  said, 
Will  ease  me  of  much  pain. 

Before  I  give  you  one  penny,  sweetheart, 
Pray  tell  me  where  you  were  born. 

At  Islington,  kind  sir,  said  she. 
Where  I  have  had  many  a  scorn. 

I  prythe,  sweetheart,  then  tell  to  me, 

O  tell  me,  whether  you  know, 
The  bayliffe's  daughter  of  Islington. 

She  is  dead,  sir,  long  ago. 


146  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

If  she  be  dead,  then  take  my  horse, 

My  saddle  and  bridle  also; 
For  I  will  unto  some  far  country, 

Where  no  man  shall  me  know. 

O  stay,  O  stay,  thou  goodly  youth, 

She  standeth  by  thy  side; 
She  is  here  alive,  she  is  not  dead, 

And  ready  to  be  thy  bride. 

0  farewell  grief,  and  welcome  joy, 
Ten  thousand  times  therefore; 

For  now  I  have  found  mine  own  true  love, 
Whom  I  thought  I  should  never  see  more. 

Anonymous 

RESIGNATION 

Why,  why  repine,  my  pensive  friend. 

At  pleasures  slipp'd  away? 
Some  the  stern  Fates  will  never  lend. 

And  all  refuse  to  stay. 

1  see  the  rainbow  in  the  sky, 
The  dew  upon  the  grass; 

I  see  them,  and  I  ask  not  why  ' 
They  glimmer  or  they  pass. 

With  folded  arms  I  linger  not 
To  call  them  back;  't  were  vain: 

In  this,  or  in  some  other  spot, 
I  know  they'll  shine  again. 

Walter  Savage  Landor 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL  147 

A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL 

So  now  is  come  our  joyful'st  feast; 

Let  every  man  be  jolly. 
Each  room  with  ivy-leaves  is  dress'd, 

And  every  post  with  holly. 
Though  some  churls  at  our  mirth  repine, 
Round  your  foreheads  garlands  twine, 
Drown  sorrow  in  a  cup  of  wine, 

And  let  us  all  be  merry. 

Now  all  our  neighbours'  chimneys  smoke, 
And  Christmas-blocks  are  burning; 

Their  ovens  they  with  baked  meat  choke. 
And  all  their  spits  are  turning. 

Without  the  door  let  sorrow  lie; 

And,  if  for  cold  it  hap  to  die, 

We'll  bury  it  in  a  Christmas  pie 
And  evermore  be  merry! 

Now  every  lad  is  wondrous  trim, 

And  no  man  minds  his  labour; 
Our  lasses  have  provided  them 

A  bag-pipe  and  a  tabor. 
Young  men,  and  maids,  and  girls,  and  boys, 
Give  life  to  one  another's  joys, 
And  you  anon  shall  by  their  noise 

Perceive  that  they  are  merry. 

Rank  misers  now  do  sparing  shun; 
Their  hall  of  music  soundcth; 


148  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

And  dogs  thence  with  whole  shoulders  run; 

So  all  things  there  aboundeth. 
The  country  folks  themselves  advance 
With  crowdy-muttons  out  of  France; 
And  Jack  shall  pipe,  and  Jill  shall  dance, 
,    And  all  the  town  be  merry! 

Ned  Swash  hath  fetch'd  his  bands  from  pawn, 

And  all  his  best  apparel; 
Brisk  Nell  hath  bought  a  ruff  of  lawn 

With  droppings  of  the  barrel; 
And  those  that  hardly  all  the  year 
Had  bread  to  eat  or  rags  to  wear, 
Will  have  both  clothes  and  dainty  fare, 

And  all  the  day  be  merry. 

Now  poor  men  to  the  justices 

With  capons  make  their  arrants, 
And  if  they  hap  to  fail  of  these 

They  plague  them  with  their  warrants. 
But  now  they  feed  them  with  good  cheer, 
And  what  they  want  they  take  in  beer, 
For  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year. 
And  then  they  shall  be  merry. 

Good  farmers  in  the  country  nurse 
The  poor  that  else  were  undone; 

Some  landlords  spend  their  money  worse, 
On  lust  and  pride  in  London. 

There  the  roysters  they  do  play. 

Drab  and  dice  their  lands  away. 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL  119 

Which  may  be  ours  another  day, 
And  therefore  let's  be  merry! 

The  client  now  his  suit  forbears; 

The  prisoner's  heart  is  eased; 
The  debtor  drinks  away  his  cares, 

And  for  the  time  is  pleased. 
Though  others'  purses  be  more  fat, 
Why  should  we  pine  or  grieve  at  that? 
Hang  sorrow!  care  will  kill  a  cat, 

And  therefore  let's  be  merry! 

Hark!  now  the  wags  abroad  do  call 

Each  other  forth  to  rambling; 
Anon  you'll  see  them  in  the  hall, 

For  nuts  and  apples  scrambling. 
Hark  how  the  roofs  with  laughters  sound! 
Anon  they'll  think  the  house  goes  round. 
For  they  the  cellar's  depth  have  found. 

And  there  they  will  be  merry. 

The  wenches  with  their  wassail-bowls 

About  the  streets  are  singing, 
The  boys  are  come  to  catch  the  owls. 

The  wild  mare  in  is  bringing. 
Our  kitchen-boy  hath  broke  his  box, 
And  to  the  dealing  of  the  ox. 
Our  honest  neighbours  come  by  flocks. 

And  here  they  will  be  merry. 

Now  kings  and  queens  poor  shcepcotes  have, 
And  mate  with  everybody; 


ISO  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

The  honest  now  may  play  the  knave, 

And  wise  men  play  at  noddy. 
Some  youths  will  now  a-mumming  go. 
Some  others  play  at  rowland-hoe, 
And  twenty  other  game  boys  moe, 

Because  they  will  be  merry. 

Then  wherefore  in  these  merry  days 

Should  we,  I  pray,  be  duller? 
No;  let  us  sing  some  roundelays 

To  make  our  mirth  the  fuller. 
And,  whilst  thus  insplr'd  we  sing, 
Let  all  the  streets  with  echoes  ring; 
Woods,  and  hills,  and  everything. 

Bear  witness  we  are  merry! 

George  Wither 

EPITAPH  ON  CHARLES  II 

Here  lies  our  Sovereign  Lord  the  King, 

Whose  word  no  man  relies  on, 
Who  never  said  a  foolish  thing, 

Nor  ever  did  a  wise  one. 

The  Earl  of  Rochester 

THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE 

Sweet  Auburn!  loveliest  village  of  the  plain. 
Where  health  and  plenty  cheer'd  the  labouring  swain, 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid. 
And  parting  summer's  ling'ring  blooms  delay'd: 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE  151 

Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 

Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please, 

How  often  have  I  loiter'd  o'er  thy  green. 

Where  humble  happiness  endear'd  each  scene; 

How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm, 

The  shelter'd  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill. 

The  decent  church  that  topp'd    the   neighbouring 

hill. 
The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade, 
For  talking  age  and  whisp'ring  lovers  made; 
How  often  have  I  bless'd  the  coming  day, 
When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 
And  all  the  village  train,  from  labour  free. 
Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree; 
While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 
The  young  contending  as  the  old  survey'd; 
And  many  a  gambol  frolick'd  o'er  the  ground, 
And    sleight    of    art    and    feats    of    strength    went 

round; 
And  still  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired. 
Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired; 
The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown, 
By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down; 
The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 
While  secret  laughter  titter'd  round  the  place; 
The  bashful  virgin's  side-long  looks  of  love. 
The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove: 
These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village;    sports  like 

these, 
With  sweet  succession,  taught  e'en  toil  to  please; 


1 52  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

These  round   thy  bowers    their  cheerful  influence 

shed, 
These  were  thy  charms  —  But  all  these  charms  are 

fled. 

Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn. 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn; 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green: 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain: 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way. 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest. 
The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries. 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all. 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mould'ring  wall; 
And  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand, 
Far,  far  away,  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hast'ning  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay: 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade; 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made; 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride, 
When  once  destroy'd,  can  never  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs  began. 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintain'd  its  man; 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE  153 

For  him  light  labour  spread  her  wholesome  store, 
Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no  more: 
His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health; 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  alter'd;  trade's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land  and  dispossess  the  swain; 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scatter'd  hamlets  rose, 
Unwieldy  wealth,  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose; 
And  every  want  to  opulence  allied, 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 
Those  calm  desires  that  ask'd  but  little  room, 
Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peaceful  scene, 
Lived  in  each  look,  and  brighten'd  all  the  green; 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore, 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  Auburn!  parent  of  the  blissful  hour, 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power. 
Here  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds. 
Amidst  thy  tangling  walks,  and  ruin'd  grounds, 
And,  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew. 
Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs  —  and  God  has  given  my  share  — 
I  still  had  hopes  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down; 


154  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose, 
I  still  had  hopes,  for  pride  attends  us  still, 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learn'd  skill, 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw; 
And,  as  a  hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  pass'd, 
Here  to  return  —  and  die  at  home  at  last. 

O  blest  retirement,  friend  to  life's  decline, 
Retreats  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine, 
How  happy  he  who  crowns  in  shades  like  these, 
A  youth  of  labour  with  an  age  of  ease; 
Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try, 
And,  since  't  is  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep. 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep; 
No  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate; 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end. 
Angels  around  befriending  Virtue's  friend; 
Bends  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay, 
While  Resignation  gently  slopes  the  way; 
And,  all  his  prospects  bright'ning  to  the  last, 
His  Heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  pass'd! 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft  at  evening's  close 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose; 
There,  as  I  pass'd  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE  ISS 

The  mingling  notes  came  soften'd  from  below; 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milk-maid  sung, 
The  sober  herd  that  low'd  to  meet  their  young; 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool, 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school; 
The  watchdog's  voice  that  bay'd  the  whisp'ring  wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind: 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 
And  fill'd  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail, 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale, 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  foot-way  tread, 
For  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled. 
All  but  yon  widow'd,  solitary  thing 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring; 
She,  wretched  matron,  forced,  in  age,  for  bread, 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread, 
To  pick  her  wintry  faggot  from  the  thorn. 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn; 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows  wild; 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear. 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race. 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wish'd  to  change  his  place; 
Unpractised  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power, 


iS6  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

By  doctrines  fashion'd  to  the  varying  hour; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learn'd  to  prize, 
More  skill'd  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train, 
He  chid  their  wand'rings,  but  relieved  their  pain; 
The  long-remember'd  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast; 
The  ruin'd  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claim'd  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allow'd; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay. 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talk'd  the  night  away; 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shoulder'd  his  crutch,  and  show'd  how  fields  were 

won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learn'd  to 

glow. 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe; 
Careless  their  merits,  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  lean'd  to  Virtue's  side. 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call. 
He  watch'd  and  wept,  he  pray'd  and  felt,  for  all; 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay. 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid. 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns  dismay'd, 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE  157 

The  reverend  champion  stood.   At  his  control, 
Despair  and  Anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last  falt'ring  accents  whisper'd  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unafi'ected  grace, 
His  looks  adorn'd  the  venerable  place; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevail'd  with  double  sway, 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remain'd  to  pray. 
The  service  pass'd,  around  the  pious  man, 
With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran; 
Even  children  foUow'd  with  endearing  wile. 
And  pluck'd  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's  smile. 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  express'd. 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distress'd; 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  Heaven. 
As  some  tall  cliff,  that  lifts  its  awful  form. 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm. 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossom'd  furze  unprofitably  gay. 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skill'd  to  rule. 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school; 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view; 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew; 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learn'd  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face; 
Full  well  they  laugh'd,  with  counterfeited  glee. 


IS8  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he; 

Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 

Convey'd  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frown'J; 

Yet  he  was  kind;  or  if  severe  in  aught. 

The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault; 

The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew; 

'T  was  certain  he  could  write,  and  cypher  too; 

Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 

And  e'en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge. 

In  arguing  too,  the  parson  own'd  his  skill, 

For  e'en  though  vanquish'd,  he  could  argue  still; 

While  words  of  learned  length  and  thund'ring  sound 

Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around. 

And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew, 

That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame.  The  very  spot 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumph'd,  is  forgot. 
Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye, 
Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts  in- 
spired. 
Where  gray-beard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retired, 
Where  village  statesmen  talk'd  with  looks  profound, 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlour  splendours  of  that  festive  place; 
The  white-wash'd  wall,  the  nicely  sanded  floor, 
The  varnish'd  clock  that  click'd  behind  the  door; 
The  chest  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day; 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE  159 

The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use, 
The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose; 
The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chill'd  the  day, 
With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers,  and  fennel  gay; 
While  broken  tea-cups,  wisely  kept  for  show. 
Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glisten'd  in  a  row. 

Vain  transitory  splendours!   Could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall! 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart; 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale, 
No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  prevail; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 
Relax  his  pond'rous  strength,  and  lean  to  hear; 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  press'd, 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes!  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train; 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart. 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art; 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  Nature  has  its  play. 
The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born  sway;. 
Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfined: 
But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade, 
With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  array'd, 


i6o  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain, 
The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain; 
And,  e'en  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy, 
The  heart  distrusting  asks,  if  this  be  joy. 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen,  who  survey 
The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor's  decay, 
'T  is  yours  to  judge,  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 
And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her  shore; 
Hoards,  e'en  beyond  the  miser's  wish  abound. 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 
Yet  count  our  gains.   This  wealth  is  but  a  name 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss.   The  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied; 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  bounds, 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds; 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 
Has   robb'd   the   neighbouring   fields   of  half  their 

growth ; 
His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen. 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green; 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies; 
While  thus  the  land  adorn'd  for  pleasure,  all 
In  barren  splendour  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

As  some  fair  female  unadorn'd  and  plain, 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE  i6i 

Slights  every  borrow'd  charm  that  dress  supplies, 

Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes: 

But  when  those  charms  are  pass'd,  for  charms  are 

frail, 
When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail, 
She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 
In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress. 
Thus  fares  the  land,  by  luxury  betray'd. 
In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  array'd; 
But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendours  rise. 
Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise; 
While  scourged  by  famine  from  the  smiling  land, 
The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band; 
And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save, 
The  country  blooms  —  a  garden  and  a  grave. 

Where  then,  ah!  where,  shall  poverty  reside, 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  stray'd, 
He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide, 
And  e'en  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped  —  What  waits  him  there? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share; 
To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
To  pamper  luxury  and  thin  mankind; 
To  see  those  joys  the  sons  of  pleasure  know 
Extorted  from  his  fellow  creature's  woe. 
Here,  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade, 
There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade; 


iSz  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Here,  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps  dis- 
play, 
There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way. 
The  dome  where  Pleasure  holds  her  midnight  reign. 
Here,  richly  deck'd,  admits  the  gorgeous  train; 
Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square, 
The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 
Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy! 
Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy! 
Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts  ? — Ah,  turn  thine  eyes 
Where  the  poor  houseless  shiv'ring  female  lies. 
She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  bless'd. 
Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distress'd; 
Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn. 
Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn; 
Now  lost  to  all,  her  friends,  her  virtue  fled, 
Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head. 
And,   pinch'd   with   cold,   and   shrinking  from   the 

shower. 
With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour, 
When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town. 
She  left  her  wheel  and  robes  of  country  brown. 

Do   thine,    sweet   Auburn,   thine,   the   loveliest 
train  — 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain? 
E'en  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread! 

Ah,  no.  To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene. 
Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between, 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE  163 

Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  go, 

Where  wild  Altama  murmurs  to  their  woe. 

Far  different  there  from  all  that  charm'd  before, 

The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore; 

Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward  ray, 

And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day; 

Those  matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to  sing, 

But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling; 

Those  pois'nous  fields  with  rank  luxuriance  crown'd, 

Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  arourd; 

Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 

The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake; 

Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prey 

And  savage  men  more  murd'rous  still  than  they, 

While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 

Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the  skies. 

Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene, 

The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy-vested  green. 

The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove. 

That  only  shelter'd  thefts  of  harmless  love. 

Good  Heaven!  what  sorrows  gloom'd  that  parting 

day. 
That  call'd  them  from  their  native  walks  away; 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  pass'd, 
Hung  round  their  bowers,  and  fondly  look'd  their 

last, 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wish'd  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main; 
And  shudd'ring  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Return'd  and  wept,  and  still  return'd  to  weep. 


i64  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepared  to  go 

To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others'  woe; 

But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 

He  only  wish'd  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 

His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 

The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 

Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 

And  left  a  lover's  for  a  father's  arms. 

With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 

And  bless'd  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose, 

And  kiss'd  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a  tear, 

And  clasp'd  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubl}^  dear; 

Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 

In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

O  Luxury!  thou  curs'd  by  Heaven's  decree, 
How  ill-exchanged  are  things  like  these  for  thee! 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy, 
Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy! 
Kingdoms  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown. 
Boast  of  a  florid  vigour  not  their  own; 
At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they  grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank  unwieldy  woe; 
Till,  sapp'd  their  strength,  and  every  part  unsound, 
Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin  round. 

E'en  now  the  devastation  is  begun, 
And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done; 
E'en  now,  methinks,  as  pond'ring  here  I  stand, 
I  see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land: 
Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  sail, 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE  165 

That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  ev'ry  gale, 
Downward  they  move,  a  melancholy  band, 
Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the  strand. 
Contented  toil,  and  hospitable  care, 
And  kind  connubial  tenderness,  are  there; 
And  piety,  with  wishes  placed  above, 
And  steady  loyalty,  and  faithful  love. 
And  thou,  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest  maid, 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade; 
Unfit  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame, 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  fame; 
Dear  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried, 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride; 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss,  and  all  my  woe, 
That  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st  me  so; 
Thou  guide  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel, 
Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well! 
Farewell,  and  oh!  where'er  thy  voice  be  tried. 
On  Torno's  cliff^s,  or  Pambamarca's  side, 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervours  glow, 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow. 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 
Redress  the  rigours  of  the  inclement  clime; 
Aid  slighted  truth;  with  thy  persuasive  strain 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain; 
Teach  him,  that  states  of  native  strength  possess'd, 
Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  bless'd; 
That  trade's  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decay, 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  labour'd  mole  away; 
While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy. 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky. 

Oliver  Goldsmith 


1 66  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

THE  PLOUGH 

Above  yon  sombre  swell  of  land 

Thou  see'st  the  dawn's  grave  orange  hue, 

With  one  pale  streak  like  yellow  sand, 
And  over  that  a  vein  of  blue. 

The  air  is  cold  above  the  woods; 

All  silent  is  the  earth  and  sky, 
Except  with  his  own  lonely  moods 

The  blackbird  holds  a  colloquy. 

Over  the  broad  hill  creeps  a  beam, 

Like  hope  that  gilds  a  good  man's  brow; 

And  now  ascends  the  nostril-stream 
Of  stalwart  horses  come  to  plough. 

Ye  rigid  Ploughmen,  bear  in  mind 

Your  labour  is  for  future  hours: 
Advance  —  spare  not  —  nor  look  behind  — 

Plough  deep  and  straight  with  all  your  powers. 

Richard  Henry  Horne 

THE  REAPER 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field, 
Yon  solitary  Highland  lass! 

Reaping  and  singing  by  herself; 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass! 

Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain, 

And  sings  a  melancholy  strain; 


THE  REAPER  167 

0  listen!  for  the  vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  nightingale  did  ever  chant 

More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands 

Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt, 
Among  Arabian  sands: 

A  voice  so  thrilling  ne'er  was  heard 

In  spring-time  from  the  cuckoo-bird. 

Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 

Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings? 

Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 
For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 

And  battles  long  ago: 
Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 
Familiar  matter  of  to-day? 
Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain,' 
That  has  been,  and  may  be  again? 

Whate'cr  the  theme,  the  maiden  sang 
As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending; 

1  saw  her  singing  at  her  work,"' 
And  o'er  the  sickle  bending; 

I  listen'd,  motionless  and  still; 
And,  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill, 
The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore, 
Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 

William  Wordsworth 


i68  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

THE  WINDMILL 

The  green  corn  waving  in  the  dale, 
Tlie  ripe  grass  waving  on  the  hill: 

I  lean  across  the  pSddock  pale 
And  gaze  upon  the  giddy  mill. 

Its  hurtling  sails  a  mighty  sweep 

Cut  thro'  the  air:  with  rushing  sound 

Each  strikes  in  fury  down  the  steep, 
Rattles,  and  whirls  in  chase  around. 

Beside  his  sacks  the  miller  stands 
On  high  within  the  open  door: 

A  book  and  pencil  in  his  hands. 

His  grist  and  meal  he  reckoneth  o'er. 

His  tireless  merry  slave,  the  wind, 
Is  busy  with  his  work  to-day: 

From  whencesoe'er  he  comes  to  grind, 
He  hath  a  will  and  knows  the  way. 

He  gives  the  creaking  sails  a  spin, 
The  circling  millstones  faster  flee. 

The  shuddering  timbers  groan  within, 
And  down  the  shoot  the  meal  runs  free. 

The  miller  giveth  him  no  thanks. 

And  doth  not  much  his  work  o'erlook: 

He  stands  beside  the  sacks,  and  ranks 
The  figures  in  his  dusty  book. 

Robert  Bridges 


THE  ICE  CART  169 

THE  ICE  CART 

Perched  on  my  city  office-stool 

I  watched  with  envy,  while  a  cool 

And  lucky  carter  handled  ice.  .  .  . 

And  I  was  wandering  in  a  trice, 

Far  from  the  gray  and  grimy  heat'^ 

Of  that  intolerable  street, 

O'er  sapphire  berg  and  emerald  floe, 

Beneath  the  still,  cold  ruby  glow 

Of  everlasting  Polar  night. 

Bewildered  by  the  queer  half-light, 

Until  I  stumbled,  unawares, 

Upon  a  creek  where  big  white  bears 

Plunged  headlong  down  with  flourished  heels. 

And  floundered  after  shining  seals 

Through  shivering  seas  of  blinding  blue. 

And  as  I  watched  them,  ere  I  knew, 

I'd  stripped,  and  I  was  swimming,  too,, 

Among  the  seal-pack,  young  and  hale, 

And  thrusting  on  with  threshing  tail. 

With  twist  and  twirl  and  sudden  leap 

Through  crackling  ice  and  salty  deep  — 

Diving  and  doubling  with  my  kind, 

Until,  at  last,  we  left  behind 

Those  big  white,  blundering  bulks  of  death, 

And  lay,  at  length,  with  panting  breath 

Upon  a  far  untravelled  floe. 

Beneath  a  gentle  drift  of  snow  — 

Snow  drifting  gently,  fine  and  white. 

Out  of  the  endless  Polar  night. 


17©  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Falling  and  falling  evermore 

Upon  that  far  untravelled  shore. 

Till  I  was  buried  fathoms  deep 

Beneath  that  cold,  white  drifting  sleep  — 

Sleep  drifting  deep, 

Deep  drifting  sleep.  .  , .' 

The  carter  cracked  a  sudden  whip: 
I  clutched  my  stool  with  startled  grip, 
Awakening  to  the  grimy  heat 
Of  that  intolerable  street. 

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 

JOHN  ANDERSON  MY  JO 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 

When  we  were  first  acquent 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent; 
But  now  your  brow  is  beld,  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snow; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither, 
And  monie  a  cantie  day,  John, 

We've  had  wi'  ane  anither: 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

But  hand  in  hand  we'll  go. 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 

Robert  Burns 


THE  TEMPTATION  OF  SAINT  ANTHONY  171 

THE  TEMPTATION  OF  SAINT  ANTHONY 

{^Adapted  from  an  Old  French  Chanson.) 

Goblins  came,  on  mischief  bent. 
To  Saint  Anthony  in  Lent. 

*'Come,  ye  goblins,  small  and  big, 
We  will  kill  the  hermit's  pig. 

"While  the  good  monk  minds  his  book 
We  the  hams  will  cure  and  cook. 

"While  he  goes  down  on  his  knees 
We  will  fry  the  sausages. 

**  While  he  on  his  breast  doth  beat 
We  will  grill  the  tender  feet. 

"While  he  David's  Psalms  doth  sing 
We  will  all  to  table  bring." 

On  his  knees  went  Anthony 
To  those  imps  of  Barbary. 

"Good,  kind  goblins,  spare  his  life, 
He  to  me  is  child  and  wife. 

"He  indeed  is  good  and  mild 
As  't  were  any  chrisom  child. 

"He  is  my  felicity, 

Spare,  oh  spare  my  pig  to  mel** 


172  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

But  the  pig  they  did  not  spare, 
Did  not  heed  the  hermit's  prayer. 

They  the  hams  did  cure  and  cook, 
Still  the  good  Saint  read  his  book. 

When  they  fried  the  sausages 
Still  he  rose  not  from  his  knees. 

When  they  grilled  the  tender  feet 
He  ceased  not  his  breast  to  beat. 

They  did  all  to  table  bring, 

He  for  grace  the  Psalms  did  sing. 

All  at  once  the  morning  broke, 

From  his  dream  the  monk  awoke, 

f 

There  in  the  kind  light  of  day 
Was  the  little  pig  at  play. 

R.  L.  Gale? 

HAD  I  A  GOLDEN  POUND 

Had  I  a  golden  pound  to  spend, 

My  love  should  mend  and  sew  no  more; 

And  I  would  buy  her  a  little  quern, 
Easy  to  turn  on  the  kitchen  floor. 

And  for  her  windows  curtains  white. 

With  birds  in  flight  and  flowers  in  bloom, 


MRS.  WILLOW  173 

To  face  with  pride  the  road  to  town 
And  mellow  down  her  sunlit  room. 

And  with  the  silver  change  we'd  prove 
The  truth  of  Love  to  life's  own  end, 

With  hearts  the  years  could  but  embolden, 
Had  I  a  golden  pound  to  spend. 

Francis  Ledwidge 

MRS.  WILLOW 

Mrs.  Thomas  Willow  seems  very  glum. 
Her  life,  perhaps,  is  very  lonely  and  hum-drum, 
Digging  up  potatoes,  cleaning  out  the  weeds, 
Doing  the  little  for  a  lone  woman's  needs. 
Who  was  her  husband?  How  long  ago? 
What  does  she  wonder?   What  does  she  know? 
W'hy  does  she  listen  over  the  wall, 
Morning  and  noon-time  and  twilight  and  all, 
As  though  unforgotten  were  some  footfall? 

"Good-morning,    Mrs.    Willow."     "Good-morning, 


sir," 


Is  all  the  conversation  I  can  get  from  her. 

And  her  path-stones  are  white  as  lilies  of  the  wood. 

And  she  washes  this  and  that  till  she  must  be  very 

good. 
She  sends  no  letters,  and  no  one  calls. 
And  she  does  n't  go  whispering  beyond  her  walls; 
Nothing  in  her  garden  is  secret,  I  think  — 
That's  all  sun-bright  with  foxglove  and  pink. 


174  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

And  she  does  n't  hover  round  old  cupboards  and 

shelves 
As  old  people  do  who  have  buried  themselves; 
She  has  no  late  lamps,  and  she  digs  all  day 
And  polishes  and  plants  in  a  common  way, 
But  glum  she  is,  and  she  listens  now  and  then 
For  a  footfall,  a  footfall,  a  footfall  again. 
And  whether  it's  hope,  or  whether  it's  dread, 
Or  a  poor  old  fancy  in  her  head, 
I  shall  never  be  told;  it  will  never  be  said. 

John  Drinkwater 

THE  SOLDIER 

If  I  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me: 

That  there's  some  corner  of  a  foreign  field 
That  is  for  ever  England.   There  shall  be 

In  that  rich  earth  a  richer  dust  concealed; 
A  dust  whom  England  bore,  shaped,  made  aware, 

Gave,  once,  her  flowers  to  love,  her  ways  to  roam, 
A  body  of  England's,  breathing  English  air. 

Washed  by  the  rivers,  blest  by  suns  of  home. 

And  think,  this  heart,  all  evil  shed  away, 

A  pulse  in  the  eternal  mind,  no  less 
Gives  somewhere  back  the  thoughts  by  England 

given ; 
Her  sights  and  sounds;  dreams  happy  as  her  day. 
And  laughter,  learnt  of  friends;  and  gentleness, 
In  hearts  at  peace,  under  an  English  heaven. 

Rupert  Brooke 


THE  TOYS  I7S 

THE  TOYS 

My  little  son,  who  look'd  from  thoughtful  eyes 
And  moved  and  spoke  in  quiet  grown-up  wise, 
Having  my  law  the  seventh  time  disobey'd, 
1  struck  him,  and  dismiss'd 
With  hard  words  and  unkiss'd  — 
His  mother,  who  was  patient,  being  dead  — 
Then,  fearing  lest  his  grief  should  hinder  sleep, 
I  visited  his  bed, 
But  found  him  slumbering  deep, 
With  darken'd  eyelids,  and  their  lashes  yet 
From  his  late  sobbing  wet. 
And  I,  with  moan. 

Kissing  away  his  tears,  left  others  of  my  own; 
For,  on  a  table  drawn  beside  his  head. 
He  had  put,  within  his  reach, 
A  box  of  counters,  and  a  red-vein'd  stone, 
A  piece  of  glass  abraded  by  the  beach, 
And  six  or  seven  shells, 
A  bottle  with  bluebells. 

And  two  French  copper  coins,  ranged  there  with  care- 
ful art, 
To  comfort  his  sad  heart. 
So  when  that  night  I  pray'd 
To  God,  I  wept,  and  said: 
Ah,  when  at  last  we  lie  with  tranced  breath, 
Not  vexing  Thee  in  death, 
And  thou  rememberest  of  what  toys 
We  made  our  joys, 
How  v/eakly  understood. 


176  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Thy  great  commanded  good, 

Then,  fatherly  not  less 

Than  I  whom  Thou  hast  moulded  from  the  clay, 

Thou  'It  leave  Thy  wrath,  and  say, 

"I  will  be  sorry  for  their  childishness." 

Coventry  Patmore 

PLAINT  OF  AN  HUMBLE  SERVANT 

{For  Edward  Elgar) 

0  Lord,  who  didst  create  all  things 
That  run  on  legs  or  rise  on  wings, 
Who  in  Thy  equal  care  of  all 
Dost  no  less  mark  the  sparrow's  fall 
Than  of  great  sinner  or  great  saint. 
Listen,  and  judge,  Lord,  this  my  plaint. 
Thou  who  didst  mould  the  lion  and  lamb, 
Thou  seest  of  what  shape  I  am; 

Not  lovely  as  those  creatures  are, 
But  gawky,  rude,  familiar 
In  every  field  and  market-place  — 
The  jackiest  jackass  of  my  race. 

Not  much  is  it  that  is  implored 
By  this  Thy  creature  of  my  Lord  — 

1  do  not  ask  that  Thou  shouldst  change 
That  which  to  His  eyes  was  not  strange 
When  on  my  grandad-grandad's  hide 
Thy  Son  t'ward  Zion  deigned  to  ride  — 
But  Lord  —  came  it  of  wisdom  dark, 
Or  that  Thy  hand  did  cease  to  mark 


PLAINT  OF  AN  HUMBLE  SERVANT       177 

That  which  it  made  (through  weariness 
Of  fashioning  beasts  great  and  less) 
Thou  hast  on  me,  Thy  hapless  jade, 
Another  heavy  burden  laid. 

For  upon  Saints'  days,  when  I  stand 
Holiday-making  —  twixt  the  sand 
Of  the  bright  foreshore  and  the  steeple, 
Whereunder  crowd  the  stiff-starched  people 
To  pay  Thee  homage,  each  great  ear 
Must  a  heavenly  chorus  hear: 
First  overhead  ting-tang  the  bells, 
Then  in  the  aisle  the  organ  swells, 
Praising  Thee,  Lord,  till  deep  and  strong 
The  happy  folk  take  up  the  song, 
Till  the  gay  birds  outside,  too,  raise 
A  sweet,  wild  shrilling  song  of  praise. 

Mark  then,  what  grief,  Lord,  must  be  mine 

Who  do  not  find  Thee  less  divine, 

For  dared  I  also  raise  my  voice, 

That  with  the  throng  I  might  rejoice  — 

Ah!  what  a  hell  of  sound  I  draw 

Who  can  but  sing  ^^ Hee-Haw!  Ilee-Haw!" 

O  grief!  O  shame!  on  every  bush 

The  pert  birds  scold  or  bid  me  hush. 

And  —  worst  of  all  —  my  master  hies 

Out  from  the  church  with  angry  cries, 

And,  save  I  forthwith  cease,  his  stick 

Descends  upon  me  fast  and  thick. 


1.78  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Lord  —  last  —  just  this:  at  thy  behest 
All's  done  as  seemeth  to  Thee  best, 
Old  Balaam  had  an  ass  which  spoke, 
May  not  another  of  that  folk? 
Were  it  not  but  a  little  thing 
To  Thee  to  let  a  jackass  sing 
No  less  than  proud  sinner  or  poor  saint? 
That  is  all,  Lord.   Thus  ends  my  plaint. 

Robert  Nichols 

THE  MOON 

Thy  beauty  haunts  me  heart  and  soul, 
O  thou  fair  Moon,  so  close  and  bright; 

Thy  beauty  makes  me  like  the  child 
That  cries  aloud  to  own  thy  light: 

The  little  child  that  lifts  each  arm 

To  press  thee  to  her  bosom  warm. 

Though  there  are  birds  that  sing  this  night 
With  thy  white  beams  across  their  throats, 

Let  my  deep  silence  speak  for  me 

More  than  for  them  their  sweetest  notes: 

Who  worships  thee  till  music  fails 

Is  greater  than  thy  nightingales. 

W.  H.  Davies 

THE  WILD  DUCK 

Twilight.  Red  in  the  West. 
Dimness.   A  glow  on  the  wood. 


STAR  TALK  179 

The  teams  plod  home  to  rest. 

The  wild  duck  come  to  glean. 

O  souls  not  understood, 

What  a  wild  cry  in  the  pool ! 

What  things  have  the  farm  ducks  seen 

That  they  cry  so  —  huddle  and  cry? 

Only  the  soul  that  goes. 

Eager.   Eager.   Flying. 

Over  the  globe  of  the  moon, 

Over  the  wood  that  glows. 

Wings  linked.  Necks  a-strain, 

A  rush  and  a  wild  crying. 

•  •  •  •  • 

A  cry  of  the  long  pain 

In  the  reeds  of  a  steel  lagoon, 

In  a  land  that  no  man  knows. 

John  Masefield 

STAR  TALK 

"Are  you  awake,  GemelH, 

This  frosty  night?" 

"We'll  be  awake  till  reveille. 
Which  is  sunrise,"  say  the  GemelH, 

"It's  no  good  trying  to  go  to  sleep: 
If  there's  wine  to  be  got  we'll  drink  it  deep, 

But  rest  is  hopeless  to-night. 

But  rest  is  hopeless  to-night.'* 

"Are  you  cold  too,  poor  Pleiads, 
This  frosty  night?" 


1 80  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

"Yes,  and  so  are  the  Hyads: 
See  us  cuddle  and  hug,"  say  the  Pleiads, 

"All  six  in  a  ring:  it  keeps  us  warm: 
We  huddle  together  like  birds  in  a  storm: 

It's  bitter  weather  to-night, 

It's  bitter  weather  to-night.'* 

"What  do  you  hunt,  Orion, 

This  starry  night?" 

"The  Ram,  the  Bull,  and  the  Lion, 
And  the  Great  Bear,"  says  Orion, 

"With  my  starry  quiver  and  beautiful  belt, 
I  am  trying  to  find  a  good  thick  pelt 

To  warm  my  shoulders  to-night, 

To  warm  my  shoulders  to-night.' 


>» 


"Did  you  hear  that.  Great  She-bear, 

This  frosty  night?" 

"Yes,  he's  talking  of  stripping  me  bare 
Of  my  own  big  fur,"  says  the  She-bear, 

"I'm  afraid  of  the  man  and  his  terrible  arrow: 
The  thought  of  it  chills  my  bones  to  the  marrow, 

And  the  frost  so  cruel  to-night! 

And  the  frost  so  cruel  to-night!" 

"How  is  your  trade,  Aquarius, 

This  frosty  night?" 

"Complaints  is  many  and  various. 
And  my  feet  are  cold,"  says  Aquarius, 

"There's  Venus  objects  to  Dolphin-scales, 
And  Mars  to  Crab-spawn  found  in  my  pails, ^ 


ROMANCE  i8i 

And  the  pump  has  frozen  to-night, 
And  the  pump  has  frozen  to-night." 

Robert  Graves 


HIS  PRAYER  TO  BEN  JONSON 

When  I  a  verse  shall  make, 
Know  I  have  pray'd  thee, 
For  old  religion's  sake, 
Saint  Ben,  to  aid  me. 

Make  the  way  smooth  for  me, 
When  I,  thy  Herrick, 
Honouring  thee,  on  my  knee 
Offer  my  lyric. 

Candles  I'll  give  to  thee 
And  a  new  altar, 
And  thou,  Saint  Ben,  shalt  be 
Writ  in  my  Psalter. 

Robert  Herrick 


ROMANCE 

When  I  was  but  thirteen  or  so 
I  went  into  a  golden  land, 

Chimborazo,  Cotopaxi 
Took  me  by  the  hand. 

My  father  died,  my  brother  too. 
They  passed  like  fleeting  dreams, 


1 82  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

I  stood  where  Popoca taped  j 
In  the  sunHght  gleams. 

I  dimly  heard  the  master's  voice 

And  boys  far-off  at  play, 
Chimborazo,  Cotopaxi 

Had  stolen  me  away. 

I  walked  In  a  great  golden  dream 

To  and  fro  from  school  — 
Shining  Popocatapetl 

The  dusty  streets  did  rule. 

I  walked  home  with  a  gold  dark  bojr. 

And  never  a  word  I  'd  say, 
Chimborazo,  Cotopaxi 

Had  taken  my  speech  away: 

I  gazed  entranced  upon  his  face 

Fairer  than  any  flower  — 
O  shining  Popocatapetl, 

It  was  thy  magic  hour: 

The  houses,  people,  traffic  seemed 

Thin  fading  dreams  by  day, 
Chimborazo,  Cotopaxi 

They  had  stolen  my  soul  away! 

W.  J.  Turner 


ARABIA  183 

ARABIA 

Far  are  the  shades  of  Arabia, 

Where  the  Princes  ride  at  noon, 

'Mid  the  verdurous  vales  and  thickets, 

Under  the  ghost  of  the  moon; 

And  so  dark  is  that  vaulted  purple 

Flowers  in  the  forest  rise 

And  toss  into  blossom  'gainst  the  phantom  stars 

Pale  in  the  noonday  skies. 

Sweet  is  the  music  of  Arabia 

In  my  heart,  when  out  of  dreams 

I  still  in  the  thin  clear  mirk  of  dawn 

Descry  her  gliding  streams; 

Hear  her  strange  lutes  on  the  green  banks 

Ring  loud  with  the  grief  and  delight 

Of  the  dim-silked,  dark-haired  Musicians 

In  the  brooding  silence  of  night. 

They  haunt  me  —  her  lutes  and  her  forests; 

No  beauty  on  earth  I  see 

But  shadowed  with  that  dream  recalls 

Her  loveliness  to  me: 

Still  eyes  look  coldly  upon  me, 

Cold  voices  whisper  and  say  — 

"He  is  crazed  with  the  spell  of  far  Arabia, 

They  have  stolen  his  wits  away." 

Walter  de  la  Mare 


1 84  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

WITH  A  COPY  OF  HERRICK 

Fresh  with  all  airs  of  woodland  brooks 

And  scents  of  showers, 
Take  to  your  haunt  of  holy  books 

This  saint  of  flowers. 

When  meadows  burn  with  budding  May, 

And  heaven  is  blue, 
Before  his  shrine  our  prayers  we  say,  — 

Saint  Robin  true. 

Love  crowned  with  thorns  is  on  his  staff,  — 

Thorns  of  sweet-brier; 
His  benediction  is  a  laugh, 

Birds  are  his  choir. 

His  sacred  robe  of  white  and  red 

Unction  distils; 
He  hath  a  nimbus  round  his  head 

Of  daffodils. 

Edmund  Gosse 

ON  MALVERN  HILL 

A  WIND  is  brushing  down  the  clover, 
It  sweeps  the  tossing  branches  bare, 

Blowing  the  poising  kestrel  over 

The  crumbling  ramparts  of  the  Caer. 

It  whirls  the  scattered  leaves  before  us 
Along  the  dusty  road  to  home. 


TO  HIS  DEAR  GOD  185 

Once  it  awakened  into  chorus 

The  heart-strings  in  the  ranks  of  Rome. 

There  by  the  gusty  coppice  border 
The  shrilling  trumpets  broke  the  halt, 

The  Roman  line,  the  Roman  order, 
Swayed  forwards  to  the  blind  assault. 

Spearman  and  charioteer  and  bowman 
Charged  and  were  scattered  into  spray, 

Savage  and  taciturn  the  Roman 
Hewed  upwards  in  the  Roman  way. 

There  —  in  the  twilight  —  where  the  cattle 
Are  lowing  home  across  the  fields, 

The  beaten  warriors  left  the  battle 

Dead  on  the  clansmen's  wicker  shields. 

The  leaves  whirl  in  the  wind's  riot 
Beneath  the  Beacon's  jutting  spur. 

Quiet  are  clan  and  chief,  and  quiet 
Centurion  and  signifer. 

John  Masefield 

TO  HIS  DEAR  GOD 

I'll  hope  no  more 
For  things  that  will  not  come: 
And,  if  they  do,  they  prove  but  cumbersome; 
Wealth  brings  much  woe; 
And,  since  it  fortunes  so, 


186  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

'T  is  better  to  be  poor, 

Than  so  abound, 

As  to  be  drowned, 
Or  overwhelmed  with  store. 

Pale  care,  avaunt! 
I'll  learn  to  be  content 
With  that  small  stock  Thy  Bounty  gave  or  lent. 

What  may  conduce 
To  my  most  healthful  use, 
Almighty  God,  me  grant; 

But  that,  or  this, 

That  hurtful  is. 
Deny  thy  suppliant. 

Robert  Herrick 

BY  THE  SEA 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free; 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun 
Breathless  with  adoration;  the  broad  sun 

Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity; 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  broods  o'er  the  Sea: 
Listen!  the  mighty  Being  is  awake. 
And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 

A  sound  like  thunder  —  everlastingly. 

Dear  child!  dear  girl!  that  walkest  with  me  here, 
If  thou  appear  untouch'd  by  solemn  thought 
Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine; 


PASSIONATE  SHEPHERD  TO  HIS  LOVE     187 

Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year, 

And  worshipp'st  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrine, 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 

William  Wordsworth 


THE  PASSIONATE  SHEPHERD  TO  HIS 

LOVE 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  hills  and  valleys,  dale  and  field, 
And  all  the  craggy  mountains  yield. 

There  will  we  sit  upon  the  rocks 
And  see  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks, 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

There  will  I  make  thee  beds  of  roses 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies, 
A  cap  of  flowers,  and  a  kirtle 
Embroider'd  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle. 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool, 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull, 
Fair  lined  sHppers  for  the  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold. 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs  J 


1 88  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love. 

Thy  silver  dishes  for  thy  meat 
As  precious  as  the  gods  do  eat, 
Shall  on  an  ivory  table  be 
Prepared  each  day  for  thee  and  me. 

The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight  each  May-morning: 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love. 

Christopher  Marlowe 


TO  HIS  LOVE 

When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 
I  see  descriptions  of  the  fairest  wights, 

And  beauty  making  beautiful  old  rhyme 
In  praise  of  ladies  dead,  and  lovely  knights; 

Then  in  the  blazon  of  sweet  beauty's  best 
Of  hand,  of  foot,  of  lip,  of  eye,  of  brow, 

I  see  their  antique  pen  would  have  exprest 
Ev'n  such  a  beauty  as  you  master  now. 

So  all  their  praises  are  but  prophecies 
Of  this  our  time,  all  you  prefiguring; 

And,  for  they  look'd  but  with  divining  eyes, 
They  had  not  skill  enough  your  worth  to  sing: 


MY  LADY  GREENSLEEVES  189 

For  we,  which  now  behold  these  present  days, 
Have  eyes  to  wonder,  but  lack  tongues  to  praise. 

William  Shakespeare 

MY  LADY  GREENSLEEVES 

Alas  1  my  love,  you  do  me  wrong 
To  cast  me  off  discourteously; 
And  I  have  loved  you  so  long. 
Delighting  in  your  company. 
Greensleeves  was  all  my  joy! 
Greensleeves  was  my  delight! 
Greensleeves  was  my  heart  of  gold! 
And  who  but  my  Lady  Greensleeves! 

I  bought  thee  petticoats  of  the  best, 

The  cloth  so  fine  as  fine  as  might  be; 
I  gave  thee  jewels  for  thy  chest. 
And  all  this  cost  I  spent  on  thee. 
Greensleeves  was  all  my  joy! 
Greensleeves  was  my  delight! 
Greensleeves  was  my  heart  of  gold! 
And  who  but  my  Lady  Greensleeves! 

Thy  smock  of  silk,  both  fair  and  white, 

With  gold  embroidered  gorgeously; 
Thy  petticoat  of  sendal  right: 
And  these  I  bought  thee  gladly. 
Greensleeves  was  all  my  joy! 
Greensleeves  was  my  delight! 
Greensleeves  was  my  heart  of  gold! 
And  who  but  my  Lady  Greensleeves! 


190  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Greensleeves  now  farewell!  ad^eu! 

God  I  pray  to  prosper  thee! 
For  I  am  still  thy  lover  true: 
Come  once  again  and  love  me! 
Greensleeves  was  all  my  joy! 
Greensleeves  was  my  delight! 
Greensleeves  was  my  heart  of  gold! 
And  who  but  my  Lady  Greensleeves! 

Anonymous 

THE  BANKS  O'  DOON 

Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  blume  sae  fair? 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 

And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care? 

Thou  '11  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird. 

That  sings  upon  the  bough: 
Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days 

When  my  fause  Luve  was  true! 

Thou '11  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird. 

That  sings  beside  thy  mate: 
For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang, 

And  wist  na  o'  my  fate! 

Aft  hae  I  roved  by  bonie  Doon 

To  see  the  woodbine  twine. 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  luve. 

And  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 


SONG  191 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree, 
And  my  fause  luver  staw  my  rose, 

But  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 

Robert  Burns 


SONG 

Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows, 
When  June  is  past,  the  fading  rose; 
For  in  your  beauties  orient  deep 
These  flowers,  as  in  their  causes,  sleep. 

Ask  me  no  more,  whither  do  stray 
The  golden  atoms  of  the  day; 
For,  in  pure  love,  heaven  did  prepare 
Those  powders  to  enrich  your  hair. 

Ask  me  no  more,  whither  doth  haste 
The  nightingale,  when  May  is  past; 
For  in  your  sweet  dividing  throat 
She  winters,  and  keeps  warm  her  note. 

Ask  me  no  more,  where  those  stars  light. 
That  downwards  fall  in  dead  of  night; 
For  in  your  eyes  they  sit,  and  there 
Fixed  become,  as  in  their  sphere. 

Ask  me  no  more,  if  east  or  west, 
The  phoenix  builds  her  spicy  nest; 


192  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

For  unto  you  at  last  she  flies, 
And  in  your  fragrant  bosom  dies. 

Thomas  Carew 


A  RED,  RED  ROSE 

O  MY  Luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose 
That's  newly  sprung  in  June; 

O  my  Luve's  like  the  melodie 
That's  sweetly  play'd  in  tune. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonie  lass»\ 
So  deep  in  luve  am  I;  ^  ^ ., 

And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 
Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry: 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 
And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun; 

O  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 
While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 

Robert  Burns 

THE  GLORIES  OF  OUR  BLOOD  AND 
STATE 

The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state 

Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things; 
There  is  no  armour  against  fate; 

Death  lays  his  icy  hand  on  kings: 
Sceptre  and  Crown 
Must  tumble  down, 


DIRGE  FROxM  CYMBELINE  193 

And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 

With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 

And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they  kill: 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield; 
They  tame  but  one  another  still: 
Early  or  late 
They  stoop  to  fate, 
And  must  give  up  their  murmuring  breath 
When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death. 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow; 

Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty  deeds; 
Upon  Death's  purple  altar  now 

See  where  the  victor- victim  bleeds: 
Your  heads  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb; 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  in  their  dust. 

James  Shirley 

DIRGE  FROM  "CYMBELINE" 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun 

Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages; 
Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 

Home  art  gone  and  ta'cn  thy  wages: 
Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must. 
As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 


194  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  the  great; 

Thou  art  past  the  tyrant's  stroke; 
Care  no  more  to  clothe  and  eat; 

To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak: 
The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must 
All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  lightning-flash 
Nor  the  all-dreaded  thunder-stone; 

Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash; 
Thou  hast  finish'd  joy  and  moan: 

All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must 

Consign  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust. 

William  Shakespeare 

HERACLITUS 

They  told  me,  Heraclitus,  they  told  me  you  were 

dead, 
They  brought  me  bitter  news  to  hear  and  bitter  tears 

to  shed. 
I  wept,  as  I  remembered  how  often  you  and  I 
Had  tired  the  sun  with  talking  and  sent  him  down 

the  sky. 

And  now  that  thou  art  lying,  my  dear  old  Carian 

guest, 
A  handful  of  gray  ashes,  long  long  ago  at  rest. 
Still  are  thy  pleasant  voices,  thy  nightingales,  awake; 
For  Death,  he  taketh  all  away,  but  them  he  cannot 

take. 

William  Cory 


EASTER  NIGHT  I9S 

SONNET 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 
I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 

I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 

And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's  waste; 

Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow. 

For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless  night, 

And  weep  afresh  love's  long-since-cancell'd  woe, 
And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanish'd  sight. 

Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone, 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 

The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 
Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before: 

—  But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend, 
All  losses  are  restored,  and  sorrows  end. 

William  Shakespeare 

EASTER  NIGHT 

All  night  had  shout  of  men  and  cry 
Of  woeful  women  filled  His  way; 

Until  that  noon  of  sombre  sky 
On  Friday,  clamour  and  display 

Smote  Him;  no  solitude  had  He, 

No  silence,  since  Gethscmane. 

Public  was  Death;  but  Power,  but  Might, 
But  Life  again,  but  Victory, 


196  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Were  hushed  within  the  dead  of  night. 

The  shutter'd  dark,  the  secrecy. 
And  all  alone,  alone,  alone 
He  rose  again  behind  the  stone. 

Alice  Meynell 

THE  SHIP 

There  was  no  song  nor  shout  of  joy 

Nor  beam  of  moon  or  sun, 
When  she  came  back  from  the  voyage 

Long  ago  begun; 
But  twilight  on  the  waters 

Was  quiet  and  gray. 
And  she  glided  steady,  steady  and  pensive, 

Over  the  open  bay. 

Her  sails  were  brown  and  ragged, 

And  her  crew  hollow-eyed. 
But  their  silent  lips  spoke  content 

And  their  shoulders  pride; 
Though  she  had  no  captives  on  her  deck, 

And  in  her  hold 
There  were  no  heaps  of  corn  or  timber 

Or  silks  or  gold. 

J.  C.  Squire 

REAL  PROPERTY' 

Tell  me  about  that  harvest  field. 
•^Oh!   Fifty  acres  of  living  bread. 


REAL  PROPERTY  197 

The  colour  has  painted  itself  in  my  heart. 
The  form  is  patterned  in  my  head. 

So  now  I  take  it  everywhere; 

See  it  whenever  I  look  round; 

Hear  it  growing  through  every  sound, 

Know  exactly  the  sound  it  makes  — 

Remembering,  as  one  must  all  day, 

Under  the  pavement  the  live  earth  aches. 

Trees  are  at  the  farther  end, 
Limes  all  full  of  the  drowsy  bee: 
So  there  must  be  a  harvest  field 
Whenever  one  thinks  of  a  linden-tree. 

A  hedge  is  round  it,  very  tall, 
Hazy  and  cool  and  breathing  sweet. 
Round  paradise  is  such  a  wall. 
And  all  the  day,  in  such  a  way, 
In  paradise  the  wild  birds  call. 

You  only  need  to  close  your  eyes 

And  pass  into  your  secret  mind, 

And  you'll  be  into  paradise: 

I've  learnt  quite  easily  to  find 

Some  linden-trees  and  drowsy  bees, 

A  tall  sweet  hedge  with  the  corn  behind. 

I  will  not  have  that  harvest  mown: 
I'll  keep  the  corn  and  leave  the  bread. 
I've  bought  that  field;  it's  now  my  own: 


198  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

I've  fifty  acres  in  my  head. 
I  take  it  as  a  dream  to  bed. 
I  carry  it  about  all  day.  .  .  . 

Sometimes  when  I  have  found  a  friend 
I  give  a  blade  of  corn  away. 

Harold  Monro 

TO  MEADOWS 

Ye  have  been  fresh  and  green, 
Ye  have  been  filled  with  flowers; 

And  ye  the  walks  have  been 

Where  maids  have  spent  their  hours. 

Ye  have  beheld  how  they 

With  wicker  arks  did  come 
To  kiss  and  bear  away 

The  richer  cowslips  home. 

You've  heard  them  sweetly  sing,' 

And  seen  them  in  a  round. 
Each  virgin,  like  a  Spring, 

With  honeysuckles  crowned. 

But  now  we  see  none  here 

Whose  silvery  feet  did  tread, 
And  with  dishevelled  hair 

Adorned  this  smoother  mead. 

Like  unthrifts,  having  spent 
Your  stock,  and  needy  grown. 


ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND  199 

You're  left  here  to  lament 
Your  poor  estates  alone. 

Robert  Herrick 

ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 

(I) 

O  WILD  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being, 
Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing, 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red, 

Pestilence-stricken  multitudes:  O  thou 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low, 

Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  Spring  shall  blow 

Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 

(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odours  plain  and  hill: 

Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere; 
Destroyer  and  Preserver;  hear,  oh,  hearl 

(2) 
Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep  sky's  commo- 
tion, 
Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are  shed, 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  Heaven  and  Ocean. 


200  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning:  there  are  spread 

On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge, 
Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 

Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  even  from  the  dim  verge 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height, 
The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.   Thou  dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 

Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre, 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapours,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 

Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail,  will  burst:  oh,  hear! 

(3) 
Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer  dreams 

The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay, 
LuU'd  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams. 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiae's  bay, 

And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and  flowers 

So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them!  Thou 
For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 

The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know 


ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND  201 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with  fear, 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves:  oh,  hear! 

(4) 
If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear; 
If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee; 
A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 

Than  thou,  O  uncontrollable!   If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  Heaven, 
As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skyey  speed 
Scarce  seemed  a  vision,  I  would  ne'er  have  striven 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 

Oh,  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life!  I  bleed! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and  bowed 
One  too  like  thee:  tameless,  and  swift,  and  proud. 

(5) 
Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is: 

What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep,  autumnal  tone. 

Sweet  though  in  sadness.   Be  thou,  Spirit  fierce, 
My  spirit!   Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one! 


202  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 

Like  withered  leaves  to  quicken  a  new  birth! 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 

Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind! 
Be  through  my  Hps  to  unawakened  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy!   O  Wind, 

If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind? 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

ODE  TO  AUTU^IN 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness, 

Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun; 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eaves 
run; 
To  bend  with  apples  the  moss'd  cottage-trees, 
And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core; 
To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel  shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel;  to  set  budding  more. 
And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees. 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease; 
For  Summer  has  o'erbrimm'd  their  clammy  cells. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store? 

Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 

Thy  hair  soft-hfted  by  the  winnowing  wind; 


THANKSGIVING  TO  GOD  FOR  HIS  HOUSE    203 

Or  on  a  half-reap'd  furrow  sound  asleep, 

Drows'd  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers; 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 
Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook; 
Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look, 

Thou  watchest  the  last  oozlngs,  hours  by  hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring?  Ay,  where  are  they? 

Think  not  of  them,  —  thou  hast  thy  music  too, 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day 
And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 
Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies; 
And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn; 
Hedge-crickets  sing,  and  now  with  treble  soft 
The  redbreast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft. 
And  gathering  swallo»"=  twitter  in  the  skies. 

John  Keats 

A  THANKSGIVING  TO  GOD  FOR  HIS 
HOUSE 

Lord,  Thou  hast  given  me  a  cell 

Wherein  to  dwell; 
A  little  house,  whose  humble  roof 

Is  weatherproof; 
Under  the  spars  of  which  I  lie 

Both  soft  and  dry. 
Where  Thou,  my  chamber  for  to  ward, 


204  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Hast  set  a  guard 
Of  harmless  thoughts,  to  watch  and  keep 

Me  while  I  sleep. 
Low  is  my  porch,  as  is  my  fate, 

Both  void  of  state; 
And  yet  the  threshold  of  my  door 

Is  worn  by  the  poor, 
Who  hither  come,  and  freely  get 

Good  words  or  meat. 
Like  as  my  parlour,  so  my  hall. 

And  kitchen  small; 
A  little  buttery,  and  therein 

A  Httle  bin, 
Which  keeps  my  little  loaf  of  bread 

Unchipt,  unflead. 
Some  brittle  sticks  of  thorn  or  brier 

Make  me  a  fire. 
Close  by  whose  living  coal  I  sit. 

And  glow  like  it. 
Lord,  I  confess,  too,  when  I  dine 

The  pulse  is  Thine, 
And  all  those  other  bits  that  be 

There  placed  by  Thee. 
The  worts,  the  purslain,  and  the  mess 

Of  water-cress. 
Which  of  Thy  kindness  Thou  hast  sent: 

And  my  content 
Makes  those,  and  my  beloved  beet, 

To  be  more  sweet. 
*T  is  Thou  that  crown'st  my  glittering  hearth 

With  guiltless  mirth; 


IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD  205 

And  giv'st  me  wassail  bowls  to  drink, 

Spiced  to  the  brink. 
Lord,  't  is  Thy  plenty-dropping  hand 

That  sows  my  land: 
All  this,  and  better,  dost  Thou  send 

Me  for  this  end: 
That  I  should  render  for  my  part 

A  thankful  heart. 
Which,  fired  with  incense,  I  resign 

As  wholly  Thine: 
But  the  acceptance  —  that  must  be, 

O  Lord,  by  Thee. 

Robert  Herrick 

ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY 
CHURCHYARD 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day. 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea. 

The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness,  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight. 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds: 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 


2o6  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid, 

The  rude  Forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn. 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care: 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke; 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield! 

How  bow'd  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  Poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 

Awaits  alike  th'  inevitable  hour:  — 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  Proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault 
If  Memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 


IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD  207 

Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 
Can  Honour's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 

Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  Death? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire; 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  sway'd. 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre: 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time  did  ne'er  unroll; 

Chill  Penury  repress'd  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark  unfathom'd  caves  of  ocean  bear: 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village-Hampden,  that  with  dauntless  breast 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 

Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 

Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

Th'  applause  of  list'ning  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 
And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes 


2o8  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Their  lot  forbad:  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined; 

Forbad  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife. 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learn'd  to  stray; 

Along  the  cool  sequester'd  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenour  of  their  way. 

Yet  e'en  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect 
Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  deck'd, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  th'  unletter'd  Muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply: 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resign'd, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing  lingering  look  behind? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires; 


IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD  209 

E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries, 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  th'  unhonour'd  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate; 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
"Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn; 

"There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch. 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove; 

Now  drooping,  woeful  wan,  like  one  forlorn, 
Or  crazed  with  care,  or  cross'd  in  hopeless  love. 

"One  morn  I  miss'd  him  on  the  custom'd  hill. 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favourite  tree; 

Another  came;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he; 

"The  next  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array 

Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him 
borne  — 


210  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn.'* 

THE  EPITAPH 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth 
A  Youth,  to  Fortune  and  to  Fame  unknown; 

Fair  Science  frown'd  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  Melancholy  mark'd  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere; 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send: 
He  gave  to  Misery  all  he  had,  a  tear, 

He  gain'd  from  Heaven,  't  was  all  he  wish'd,  a 
friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 

Thomas  Gray 


AUTUMN 

I  LOVE  the  fitful  gust  that  shakes 

The  casement  all  the  day. 
And  from  the  glossy  elm-tree  takes 

The  faded  leaves  away, 
Twirling  them  by  the  window  pane 
With  thousand  others  down  the  lane. 


THE  GARDEN  an 

I  love  to  see  the  shaking  twig 

Dance  till  the  shut  of  eve, 
The  sparrow  on  the  cottage  rig, 

Whose  chirp  would  make  believe 
That  Spring  was  just  now  flirting  by 
In  Summer's  lap  with  flowers  to  lie. 

I  love  to  see  the  cottage  smoke 
Curl  upwards  through  the  trees, 

The  pigeons  nestled  round  the  cote 
On  November  days  like  these; 

The  cock  upon  the  dunghill  crowing, 

The  mill  sails  on  the  heath  a-going. 

The  feather  from  the  raven's  breast 

Falls  on  the  stubble  lea, 
The  acorns  near  the  old  crow's  nest 

Drop  pattering  down  the  tree; 
The  grunting  pigs,  that  wait  for  all, 
Scramble  and  hurry  where  they  fall. 

John  Clare 


THE  GARDEN 

How  vainly  men  themselves  ama^e, 
To  win  the  palm,  the  oak,  or  bays; 
And  their  incessant  labours  see 
Crowned  from  some  single  herb  or  tree, 
Whose  short  and  narrow-verged  shade 
Does  prudently  their  toils  upbraid; 


2ii  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

While  all  the  flowers  and  trees  do  close. 
To  weave  the  garlands  of  repose! 

Fair  Quiet,  have  I  found  thee  here, 
And  Innocence,  thy  sister  dear? 
Mistaken  long,  I  sought  you  then 
In  busy  companies  of  men. 
Your  sacred  plants,  if  here  below, 
Only  among  the  plants  will  grow; 
Society  Is  all  but  rude 
To  this  delicious  solitude. 

• 

No  white  nor  red  was  ever  seen 
So  amorous  as  this  lovely  green. 
Fond  lovers,  cruel  as  their  flame. 
Cut  in  these  trees  their  mistress'  name: 
Little,  alas!  thej^  know  or  heed, 
How  far  these  beauties  hers  exceed! 
Fair  trees!  wheres'e'er  your  bark  I  wound, 
No  name  shall  but  your  own  be  found. 

When  we  have  seen  our  passion's  heat, 
Love  hither  makes  his  best  retreat. 
The  gods,  that  mortal  beauty  chase, 
Still  in  a  tree  did  end  their  race; 
Apollo  hunted  Daphne  so, 
Only  that  she  might  laurel  grow; 
And  Pan  did  after  Syrinx  speed, 
Not  as  a  nymph,  but  for  a  reed. 

What  wondrous  life  is  this  I  lead! 
Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head; 


THE  GARDEN  113 

The  luscious  clusters  of  the  vine 
Upon  my  nriouth  do  crush  their  wine; 
The  nectarine,  and  curious  peach, 
Into  my  hands  themselves  do  reach; 
Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I  pass, 
Insnared  with  flowers,  I  fall  on  grass. 

Meanwhile  the  mind,  from  pleasure  less, 
Withdraws  into  its  happiness; 
The  mind,  that  ocean  where  each  kind 
Does  straight  its  own  resemblance  find; 
Yet  it  creates,  transcending  these, 
Far  other  worlds,  and  other  seas, 
Annihilating  all  that's  made 
To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade. 

Here  at  the  fountain's  sliding  foot. 
Or  at  some  fruit-tree's  mossy  root, 
Casting  the  body's  vest  aside, 
My  soul  into  the  boughs  does  glide: 
There,  like  a  bird,  it  sits  and  sings, 
Then  whets  and  combs  its  silver  wings, 
And,  till  prepared  for  longer  flight. 
Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light. 

Such  was  that  happy  garden-state, 
While  man  there  walk'd  without  a  mate: 
After  a  place  so  pure  and  sweet, 
What  other  help  could  yet  be  meet! 
But  't  was  beyond  a  mortal's  share 
To  wander  solit?ry  there: 


214  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Two  paradises  't  were  in  one, 
To  live  in  paradise  alone. 

How  well  the  skilful  gardener  drew 
Of  flowers,  and  herbs,  this  dial  new; 
Where,  from  above,  the  milder  sun 
Does  through  a  fragrant  zodiac  run, 
And,  as  it  works,  the  industrious  bee 
Computes  its  time  as  well  as  we! 
How  could  such  sweet  and  wholesome  hours 
Be  reckoned  but  with  herbs  and  flowers? 

Andrew  Marvell 


YATTENDON 

Among  the  woods  and  tillage 

That  fringe  the  topmost  downs, 
All  lonely  lies  the  village. 

Far  off  from  seas  and  towns. 
Yet  when  her  own  folk  slumbered 

I  heard  within  her  street 
Murmur  of  men  unnumbered 

And  march  of  myriad  feet. 

For  all  she  lies  so  lonely. 

Far  off  from  towns  and  seas, 

The  village  holds  not  only 
The  roofs  beneath  her  trees: 

While  Life  is  sweet  and  tragic 
And  Death  is  veiled  and  dumb. 


THE  SCHOLAR  GIPSY  215 

Hither,  by  singer's  magic, 

The  pilgrim  world  must  come. 

Henry  Newbolt 


THE  SCHOLAR  GIPSY 

"There  was  very  lately  a  lad  in  the  University  of  Oxford,  who  was 
by  his  poverty  forced  to  leave  his  studies  there;  and  at  last  to  join 
himself  to  a  company  of  vagabond  gipsies.  Among  these  extrava- 
gant people,  by  the  insinuating  subtilty  of  his  carriage,  he  quickly 
got  so  much  of  their  love  and  esteem  as  that  they  discovered  to  him 
their  mystery.  After  he  had  been  a  pretty  while  exercised  in  the 
trade,  there  chanced  to  ride  by  a  couple  of  scholars,  who  had  for- 
merly been  of  his  acquaintance.  They  quickly  spied  out  their  old 
friend  among  the  gipsies;  and  he  gave  them  an  account  of  the 
necessity  which  drove  him  to  that  kind  of  life,  and  told  them  that 
the  people  he  went  with  were  not  such  impostors  as  they  were  taken 
for,  but  that  they  had  a  traditional  kind  of  learning  among  them, 
and  could  do  wonders  by  the  power  of  imagination,  their  fancy 
binding  that  of  others :  that  himself  had  learned  much  of  their  art, 
and  when  he  had  compassed  the  whole  secret,  he  intended,  he  said, 
to  leave  their  company,  and  give  the  world  an  account  of  what  he 
had  learned."  —  Glanvil's  Vanity  of  Dogmatizing,  i66i. 

Go,  for  they  call  you,  shepherd,  from  the  hill! 
Go,  shepherd,  and  untie  the  wattled  cotes! 
No  longer  leave  thy  wistful  flock  unfed. 
Nor  let  thy  bawling  fellows  rack  their  throats, 
Nor  the  cropp'd  grasses  shoot  another  head! 
But  when  the  fields  are  still, 
And  the  tired  men  and  dogs  all  gone  to  rest, 
And  only  the  white  sheep  are  sometimes  seen 
Cross  and  recross  the  strips  of  moon-blanch'd 
green, 
Come,  shepherd,  and  again  begin  the  quest! 


2i6  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Here,  where  the  reaper  was  at  work  of  late  — 
In  this  high  field's  dark  corner,  where  he  leaves 

His  coat,  his  basket,  and  his  earthen  cruse, 
And  in  the  sun  all  morning  binds  the  sheaves, 
Then  here,  at  noon,  comes  back  his  stores  to 
use  — 

Here  will  I  sit  and  wait. 
While  to  my  ear  from  uplands  far  away 
The  bleating  of  the  folded  flocks  is  borne, 
With  distant  cries  of  reapers  in  the  corn  — 
All  the  live  murmur  of  a  summer's  day. 

Screen'd  is  this  nook  o'er  the  high,  half-reap'd  field. 
And  here  till  sun-down,  shepherd,  will  I  be! 

Through  the  thick  corn  the  scarlet  poppies  peep, 
And  round  green  roots  and  yellowing  stalks  I  see 
Pale  blue  convolvulus  in  tendrils  creep; 
And  air-swept  lindens  yield 
Their  scent,  and  rustle  down  their  perfumed  show- 
ers 
Of  bloom  on  the  bent  grass  where  I  am  laid, 
And  bower  me  from  the  August  sun  with  shade; 
And  the  eye  travels  down  to  Oxford's  towers. 

And  near  me  on  the  grass  lies  Glanvil's  book  — 
Come,  let  me  read  the  oft-read  tale  again! 

The  story  of  that  Oxford  scholar  poor. 
Of  shining  parts  and  quick  inventive  brain, 
Who,  tired  of  knocking  at  preferment's  door, 
One  summer  morn  forsook 
His  friends,  and  went  to  learn  the  gipsy  lore, 


THE  SCHOLAR  GIPSY  217 

And  roam'd  the  world  with  that  wild  brother- 
hood, 
And  came,  as  most  men  deem'd,  to  little  good, 
But  came  to  Oxford  and  his  friends  no  more. 

But  once,  years  after,  in  the  country-lanes, 
Two  scholars  whom  at  college  erst  he  knew 
Met  him,  and  of  his  way  of  life  inquir'd. 
Whereat  he  answer'd,  that  the  gipsy  crew. 
His  mates,  had  arts  to  rule  as  they  desired 
The  workings  of  men's  brains; 
And  they  can  bind  them  to  what  thoughts  they 
will. 
"And  I,"  he  said,  "the  secret  of  their  art. 
When  fully  learn'd,  will  to  the  world  impart; 
But  it  needs  heaven-sent  moments  for  this  skill!" 

This  said,  he  left  them,  and  return'd  no  more.  — 
But  rumours  hung  about  the  country-side 

That  the  lost  Scholar  long  was  seen  to  stray. 
Seen  by  rare  glimpses,  pensive  and  tongue-tied, 
In  hat  of  antique  shape,  and  cloak  of  gray. 
The  same  the  gipsies  wore. 
Shepherds  had  met  him  on  the  Hurst  in  spring; 
At  some  lone  alehouse  in  the  Berkshire  moors, 
On   the   warm   ingle-bench,   the   smock-frock'd 
boors 
Had  found  him  seated  at  their  entering, 

But,  mid  their  drink  and  clatter,  he  would  fly;  — 
And  I  myself  seem  half  to  know  thy  looks, 


2i8  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

And  put  the  shepherds,  wanderer,  on  thy  trace; 
And  boys  who  in  lone  wheatlields  scare  the  rooks 
I  ask  if  thou  hast  pass'd  their  quiet  place; 
Or  in  my  boat  I  lie 
Moor'd  to  the  cool  bank  in  the  summer  heats, 
Mid  wide  grass  meadows  which  the  sunshine  fills, 
And   watch   the   warm   green-muffled    Cumner 
hills, 
And  wonder  if  thou  haunt'st  their  shy  retreats. 

For  most,  I  know,  thou  lov'st  retired  ground! 
Thee,  at  the  ferry,  Oxford  riders  blithe. 

Returning  home  on  summer  nights,  have  met 
Crossing  the  stripling  Thames  at  Bablock-hithe, 
Trailing  in  the  cool  stream  thy  fingers  wet, 
As  the  punt's  rope  chops  round; 
And  leaning  backward  in  a  pensive  dream, 
And  fostering  in  thy  lap  a  heap  of  flowers 
Pluck'd  in   shy  fields  and   distant  Wychwood 
bowers. 
And  thine  eyes  resting  on  the  moonlit  stream! 

And  then  they  land,  and  thou  art  seen  no  more! 
Maidens  who  from  the  distant  hamlets  come 
To  dance  around  the  Fyfield  elm  in  May, 
Oft  through  the  darkening  fields  have  seen  thee 
roam. 
Or  cross  a  stile  into  the  public  way. 
Oft  thou  hast  given  them  store 
Of  flowers  —  the  frail-leaf'd,  white  anemone. 
Dark  bluebells  drench'd  with  dews  of  summer 
eves. 


THE  SCHOLAR  GIPSY  219 

And  purple  orchises  with  spotted  leaves  — 
But  none  has  words  she  can  report  of  thee. 

And,  above  Godstow  Bridge,  when  hay-time's  here 
In  June,  and  many  a  scythe  in  sunshine  flames, 
Men  who  through  those  wide  fields  of  breezy 
grass, 
Where  black-wing'd  swallows  haunt  the  glittering 
Thames, 
To  bathe  in  the  abandon'd  lasher  pass, 
Have  often  pass'd  thee  near 
Sitting  upon  the  river  bank  o'ergrown; 

Mark'd  thine  outlandish  garb,  thy  figure  spare, 
Thy  dark  vague  eyes,  and  soft  abstracted  air  — 
But,  when  they  came  from  bathing,  thou  wert 
gone! 

At  some  lone  homestead  in  the  Cumner  hills, 
Where  at  her  open  door  the  housewife  darns. 
Thou  hast  been  seen,  or  hanging  on  a  gate 
To  watch  the  threshers  in  the  mossy  barns. 

Children,  who  early  range  these  slopes  and  late 
For  cresses  from  the  rills, 
Have  known  thee  watching,  all  an  April  day, 
The  springing  pastures  and  the  feeding  kine; 
And  mark'd  thee,  when  the  stars  come  out  and 
shine, 
Through  the  long  dewy  grass  move  slowly  away. 

Tn  autumn,  on  the  skirts  of  Bagley-wood, 

Where  most  the  gipsies  by  the  turf-edged  way 


220  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Pitch  their  smoked  tents,  and  every  bush  you 
see 

With  scarlet  patches  tagg'd  and  shreds  of  gray, 
Above  the  forest-ground  call'd  Thessaly  — 
The  blackbird  picking  food 

Sees  thee,  nor  stops  his  meal,  nor  fears  at  all! 
So  often  has  he  known  thee  past  him  stray 
Rapt,  twirling  in  thy  hand  a  wither'd  spray, 

And  waiting  for  the  spark  from  Heaven  to  fall. 

And  once,  in  winter,  on  the  causeway  chill 

Where  home  through  flooded  fields  foot-travellers 

go, 
Have  I  not  pass'd  thee  on  the  wooden  bridge 
Wrapt  in  thy  cloak  and  battling  with  the  snow, 
Thy  face  toward  Hinksey  and  its  wintry  ridge? 
And  thou  hast  climb'd  the  hill 
And  gain'd  the  white  brow  of  the  Cumner  range; 
Turn'd  once  to  watch,  while  thick  the  snowflakes 

fall, 
The  line  of  festal  light  in  Christ-Church  hall  — 
Then  sought  thy  straw  in  some  sequester'd  grange. 

But  what  —  I  dream!  Two  hundred  years  are  flown 
Since  first  thy  story  ran  through  Oxford  halls. 
And  the  grave  Glanvil  did  the  tale  inscribe 
That  thou  wert  wander'd  from  the  studious  walls 
To  learn  strange  arts,  and  join  a  gipsy  tribe. 
And  thou  from  earth  art  gone 
Long  since,  and  in  some  quiet  churchyard  laid! 
Some  country  nook,  where  o'er  thy  unknown 
grave 


THE  SCHOLAR  GIPSY  221 

Tall  grasses  and  white  flowering  nettles  wave  — 
Under  a  dark  red-fruited  yew-tree's  shade. 

No,  no,  thou  hast  not  felt  the  lapse  of  hours! 
For  what  wears  out  the  life  of  mortal  men? 

'T  is  that  from  change  to  change  their  being 
rolls; 
'T  is  that  repeated  shocks,  again,  again, 

Exhaust  the  energy  of  strongest  souls, 
And  numb  the  elastic  powers. 
Till  having  used  our  nerves  with  bliss  and  teen. 

And  tired  upon  a  thousand  schemes  our  wit, 

To  the  just-pausing  Genius  we  remit 
Our  well-worn  life,  and  are  —  what  we  have  been! 

Thou  hast  not  lived,  why  should'st  thou  perish,  so? 
Thou  hadst  one  aim,  one  business,  one  desire! 
Else  wert  thou  long  since  number'd  with  the 
dead  — 
Else  hadst  thou  spent,  like  other  men,  thy  fire! 
The  generations  of  thy  peers  are  fled, 
And  we  ourselves  shall  go; 
But  thou  possessest  an  immortal  lot. 
And  we  imagine  thee  exempt  from  age 
And  living  as  thou  liv'st  on  Glanvil's  page. 
Because  thou  hadst  —  what  we,  alas!  have  not! 

For  early  didst  thou  leave  the  world,  with  powers 
Fresh,  undiverted  to  the  world  without. 

Firm  to  their  mark,  not  spent  on  other  things; 
Free  from  the  sick  fatigue,  the  languid  doubt, 


222  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

Which  much  to  have  tried,  in  much  been  baffled, 
brings, 

O  Hfe  unlike  to  ours! 
Who  fluctuate  idly  without  term  or  scope. 

Of  whom  each  strives,  nor  knows  for  what  he 

strives. 
And  each  half  lives  a  hundred  different  lives; 
Who  wait  like  thee,  but  not,  like  thee,  in  hope. 

Thou  waitest  for  the  spark  from  Heaven:  and  we. 
Light  half-believers  of  our  casual  creeds, 

Who  never  deeply  felt,  nor  clearly  will'd. 
Whose  insight  never  has  borne  fruit  in  deeds, 

Whose  vague  resolves  never  have  been  fulfill'd; 
For  whom  each  year  we  see 
Breeds  new  beginnings,  disappointments  new; 

Who  hesitate  and  falter  life  away, 

And  lose  to-morrow  the  ground  won  to-day  — 
Ah,  do  not  we,  wanderer,  await  it  too? 

Yes!  we  await  it,  but  it  still  delays. 

And  then  we  suffer!  and  amongst  us  one, 

Who  most  has  suffer'd,  takes  dejectedly 
His  seat  upon  the  intellectual  throne; 
And  all  his  store  of  sad  experience  he 
Lays  bare  of  wretched  days; 
Tells  us  his  misery's  birth  and  growth  and  signs, 
And  how  the  dying  spark  of  hope  was  fed. 
And  how  the  breast  was  soothed,  and  how  the 
head. 
And  all  his  hourly  varied  anodynes. 


THE  SCHOLAR  GIPSY  223 

This  for  our  wisest!  and  we  others  pine, 

And  wish  the  long  unhappy  dream  would  end, 

And  waive  all  claim  to  bliss,  and  try  to  bear, 
With  close-lipp'd  patience  for  our  only  friend, 
Sad  patience,  too  near  neighbour  to  despair; 
But  none  has  hope  like  thine! 
Thou  through  the  fields  and  through  the  woods 
dost  stray, 
Roaming  the  country-side,  a  truant  boy, 
Nursing  thy  project  in  unclouded  joy. 
And  every  doubt  long  blown  by  time  away. 

O  born  in  days  when  wits  were  fresh  and  clear, 
And  life  ran  gaily  as  the  sparkling  Thames; 

Before  this  strange  disease  of  modern  life. 
With  its  sick  hurry,  its  divided  aims. 

Its  head  o'ertax'd,  its  palsied  hearts,  was  rife  — 
Fly  hence,  our  contact  fear! 
Still  fly,  plunge  deeper  in  the  bowering  wood! 

Averse,  as  Dido  did  with  gesture  stern 

From  her  false  friend's  approach  in  Hades  turn, 
Wave  us  away,  and  keep  thy  solitude! 

Still  nursing  the  unconquerable  hope, 
Still  clutching  the  inviolable  shade, 

With  a  free  onward  impulse  brushing  through, 
By  night,  the  silver'd  branches  of  the  glade  — 
Far  on  the  forest-skirts,  where  none  pursue, 
On  some  mild  pastoral  slope 
Emerge,  and  resting  on  the  moonlit  pales, 
Freshen  thy  flowers,  as  in  former  years, 


224  THE  WAY  OF  POETRY 

With  dew,  or  listen  with  enchanted  ears, 
From  the  dark  dingles,  to  the  nightingales! 

But  fly  our  paths,  our  feverish  contact  fly! 
For  strong  the  infection  of  our  mental  strife, 
Which,  though  it  gives  no  bliss,  yet  spoils  for 
rest; 
And  we  should  win  thee  from  thy  own  fair  life, 
Like  us  distracted,  and  like  us  unblest! 
Soon,  soon  thy  cheer  would  die. 
Thy  hopes  grow  timorous,  and  unfix'd  thy  powers, 
And  thy  clear  aims  be  cross  and  shifting  made; 
And  then  thy  glad  perennial  youth  would  fade, 
Fade,  and  grow  old  at  last,  and  die  like  ours. 

Then  fly  our  greetings,  fly  our  speech  and  smiles! 
—  As  some  grave  Tyrian  trader,  from  the  sea, 

Descried  at  sunrise  an  emerging  prow 
Lifting  the  cool-hair'd  creepers  stealthily, 

The  fringes  of  a  southward-facing  brow 
Among  the  JEge&n  isles; 
And  saw  the  merry  Grecian  coaster  come, 

Freighted  with  amber  grapes,  and  Chian  wine, 

Green  bursting  figs,  and  tunnies  steep'd  in  brinej 
And  knew  the  intruders  on  his  ancient  home, 

The  young  light-hearted  masters  of  the  waves; 
And  snatch'd  his  rudder,  and  shook  out  more  sail. 

And  day  and  night  held  on  indignantly 
O'er  the  blue  Midland  waters  with  the  gale, 

Betwixt  the  Syrtes  and  soft  Sicily, 


THE  SCHOLAR  GIPSY  225 

To  where  the  Atlantic  raves 
Outside  the  western  straits,  and  unbent  sails 
There,  where  down  cloudy  cliffs,  through  sheets 

of  foam. 
Shy  traffickers,  the  dark  Iberians  come; 
And  on  the  beach  undid  his  corded  bales. 

Matthew  Arnold 


THE    END 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 

Dates  are  given,  except  in  the  case  of  living  poets 

Anonymous 

Weel  may  the  Keel  row  15 

Widdicombe  Fair  18 

The  Bonny  Earl  of  Murray  72 

Helen  of  Kirconnell  73 

I  saw  Three  Ships  75 

Lord  Randal  76 

What  Pleasure  have  Great  Princes  82 

Preparations  I04 

The  Bayliffe's  Daughter  of  Islington  144 

My  Lady  Greensleeves  189 

Arnold,  Matthew  (i 822-1 888) 

The  Scholar  Gipsy  215 

Beddoes,  Thomas  Lovell  (1803-1849) 

Dream-Pedlary  27 

BiCKERSTAFFE,  IsAAC 

There  was  a  Jolly  Miller  42 

BiNYON,  Laurence 

A  Song  109 

Blake,  Willlam  (1757-1827) 

From     Songs  of  Innocence  "  I 

Night  ^  53 

And  did  those  feet  in  ancient  time  79 

The  Tiger  1 20 

Nurse's  Song  126 

Song:  How  Sweet  I  roam'd  128 

Laughing  Song  131 

Bottomley,  Gordon 

Netted  Strawberries  121 

Bridges,  Robert 

The  Windmill  168 


228  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Brooke,  Rupert  (1887-1915) 

The  Soldier 

174 

Browne,  William  (1591-1643) 

Spring  Morning 

49 

Browning,  Robert  (1812-1889) 

Home-Thoughts,  from  Abroad 

23 

The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin 

93 

Song  from     Pippa  Passes" 

127 

Burns,  Robert  (1759-1796) 

John  Anderson  my  Jo 

170 

The  Banks  0'  Doon 

190 

A  Red,  Red  Rose 

192 

Byron,  George  Gordon,  Lord  (1788-1824) 

The  Isles  of  Greece 

87 

Campbell,  Thomas  (i 777-1 844) 

Lord  Ullin's  Daughter 

4fi 

Campion,  Thomas  (?-i6i9) 

Jack  and  Joan 

17 

The  Man  of  Life  Upright 

109 

Carew,  Thomas  (iS98(?)-i639(?)  ) 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek 

80 

Now  that  Winter 's  gone 

los 

Song 

191 

Chatterton,  Thomas  (1752-1770) 

Roundelay 

129 

Chesterton,  G.  K. 

The  Donkey 

119 

Clare,  John  (i 793-1 864) 

Little  Trotty  Wagtail 

2 

The  Beanfield 

108 

The  Thrush's  Nest 

116 

Autumn 

210 

Collins,  William  (1721-1759) 

Ode 

79 

Cory,  William  (i  823-1892) 

Heraclitus 

194 

Cowley,  Abraham  (1618-1667) 

A  Wish 

S6 

INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  229 

CowPER,  William  (173  i- 1800) 

Epitaph  on  a  Hare  122 

Cunningham,  Allan  (1784-1842) 

A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea  I43 

Davies,  W.  H. 

Raptures  7 

Leisure  55 

The  Moon  178 

DE  LA  Mare,  Walter 

Nicholas  Nye  6fJ 

Arabia  183 

DoBELL,  Sydney  (1824-1874) 

A  Chanted  Calendar  42 

Drayton,  Michael  (i563(?)-i63i) 

Daffodil  60 

Drinkwater,  John 

Blackbird  lO 

Old  Crow  59 

In  Lady  Street  131 

Mrs.  Willow  173 

Drummond,  William  (1585-1649)  . 

The  World  a  Game  92 

Ferguson,  Samuel  (1810-1886) 

The  Lapful  of  Nuts  I06 

Fletcher,  John  (1579-1625) 

Evening  Song  5* 

Pan  lOS 

Gales,  R.  L. 
The  Temptation  of  Saint  Anthony*  171 

Gibson,  Wilfrid  Wilson 

The  Dancing  Seal  I16 

The  Ice  Cart  169 

Goldsmith,  Oliver  (1728-1774) 

An  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog  5 

The  Deserted  Village  150 

Gosse,  Edmund 

With  a  Copy  of  Hcrrick  184 


230  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 

Graves,  Robert 

Star  Talk  179 

Gray,  Thomas  (1716-1771) 

On  a  Favourite  Cat  3 

Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churchyard  205 

Greene,  Robert  (i56o(?)-i592) 

Menaphon's  Roundelay  £1 

M^sia's  Song  82 

Hardy,  Thomas 

The  Oxen  I25 

Hawker,  Robert  Stephen  (1803-1875) 

And  shall  Trelawny  die?  I4 

Herbert,  George  (1593-1633) 

The  Elixir  77 

Herrick,  Robert  (1591-1674) 

To  Daffodils  6 

To  the  Lark  124 

The  Mad  Maid's  Song  138 

His  Prayer  to  Ben  Jonson  l8l 

To  his  Dear  God  185 

To  Meadows  I98 

A  Thanksgiving  to  God,  for  his  House  203 

Heywood,  Thomas  (?-i65o(?)  ) 

Pack,  Clouds,  away  71 

Hodgson,  Ralph 

Stupidity  Street  8 

The  Bells  of  Heaven  78 

Time,  you  Old  Gipsy  Man  81 

Hogg,  James  (1770-183  5) 

A  Boy's  Song  45 

Hood,  Thomas  (1799-1845) 
Ruth  44 

Past  and  Present  57 

HoRNE,  Richard  Henry  (1803-1884) 

The  Plough  166 

JoNsoN,  Ben  (1573-1637) 

The  Perfect  Life  84 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  231 

Keats,  John  (1795-1821)  <s  ' 

La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci  136 

Ode  to  Autumn  202 

KiNGSLEY,  Charles  (1819-1875) 

The  Sands  of  Dee  13 

Landor,  Walter  Savage  (1775-1864) 

Rose  Aylmer  57 

On  His  Seventy-Fifth  Birthday  US 

Death  stands  above  me  US 

Resignation  14^ 

Ledwidge,  Francis  (i 892-1917) 

Had  I  a  Golden  Pound  I72 

Lovelace,  Richard  (1618-1658) 

To  Lucasta  m 

Macaulay,  Thomas  Babington  (1800-1859) 

A  Jacobite's  Epitaph  141 

Marlowe,  Christopher  (1564-1593) 

The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love  187 

Marvell,  Andrew  (1621-1678) 

The  Garden  211 

Masefield,  John 
The  Wild  Duck  178 

On  Malvern  Hill  184 

Meynell,  Alice 

Easter  Night  I9S 

Milton,  John  (1608-1674) 

On  May  Morning  23 

Monro,  Harold  i 

From  "  Strange  Meetings"  ''  24 

Overheard  on  a  Saltmarsh  139 

Real  Property  196 

Moore,  T.  Sturge 

Beautiful  Meals  II 

Morris,  William  (183 4-1 896) 

Inscription  for  an  Old  Bed  27 

Newbolt,  Henry 

Drake's  Drum  142 

Yattendon  ,  214 


232  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 

Nichols,  Robert 

Plaint  of  an  Humble  Servant  176 

Nursery  Rhymes 

The  Bells  of  London  ■  31 

Johnny  shall  have  a  New  Bonnet  32 

The  Frog  he  would  a-wooing  ride  32 

Simple  Simon  34 

I  had  a  Little  Pony  34 

I  had  a  Little  Hobby-Horse  35 

There  was  a  Crooked  Man  35 

There  was  a  Man  of  Newington  35 

I  had  a  Little  Nut-Tree  36 

Old  King  Cole  36 

The  North  Wind  doth  blow  37 

Where  are  you  going,  my  Pretty  Maid?  37 

A  Frog  he  would  a-wooing  go  38 

How  many  Miles  is  it  to  Babylon?  41 

To  Bed,  to  Bed  41 

Mary's  Lamb  41 

Patmore,  Coventry  (i 823-1 896) 

The  Toys  175 

Phillips,  Katherine  (1631-1664) 

Death  86 

Pope,  Alexander  (1688-1744) 

The  Quiet  Life  22 

Prior,  Matthew  (1664-1721) 

A  Letter  28 

Rochester,  Earl  of  (1648-1680) 

Epitaph  on  Charles  H  I50 

Rogers,  Samuel  (1763-1855) 

A  Wish  21 

Dear  is  my  Little  Native  Vale  134 
Shakespeare,  William  (1564-1616) 

A  Song  8 

Lawn  as  white  as  driven  snow  69 

Over  hill,  over  dale  7° 

Sylvia  125 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  233 

To  his  Love:  "When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time"  188 

Dirge  from  "Cymbeline"  193 

Sonnet:  "When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought"       195 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe  (1792-1822) 
Autumn:  A  Dirge  12 

A  Song  70 

Love's  Philosophy  no 

The  Poet's  Dream  112 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind  199 

Shirley,  James  (i 596-1666) 
The  Glories  of  our  Blood  and  State  192 

SiDGwicK,  Frank 

A  Christmas  Legend  63 

Southwell,  Robert  (i56i(?)-i595) 
Time  goes  by  Turns  85 

Squire,  J.  C. 
The  Ship  196 

Stephens,  James 

In  the  Poppy  Field  2 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis  (1850-1894) 

I  will  make  you  brooches  '  cq 

Requiem  g2 

Tennyson,  Alfred  (1809-1892) 

The  Beggar  Maid  ifi 

The  Brook  ■  21 

From  "In  Memoriam"  29 

The  Owl  67 

Sweet  and  Low  127 

Ticuborne,  Chidiock  (iSS8(?)-is86) 

Verses  written  in  the  Tower  Qa 

Turner,  W.  J. 

Romance  jgj 

Vaughan,  Henry  (1622-1695) 
Sweet  Peace  , 

VVhitm.\n,  Walt  (1819-1892) 
O  Captain!  my  Captain!  140 

Winchelsea,  Anne  Finch,  Countess  of  (1660-1720) 
The  Atheist  and  the  Acorn  91 


113 


234  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Wither,  George  (1588-1667) 

A  Christmas  Carol                                      '^ 

147 

Wordsworth,  William  (1770-1850) 

•^» 

To  the  Cuckoo 

9 

A  Sister 

S8 

The  Green  Linnet 

65 

A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal 

69 

My  Heart  leaps  up 

107 

The  Daffodils 

107 

She  dwelt  among  the  Untrodden  Ways 

112 

The  World 

113 

Upon  Westminster  Bridge 

I3S 

The  Reaper 

166 

By  the  Sea 

186 

WoTTON,  Henry  (1568-1639) 

A  Description  of  the  Spring 

48 

The  Character  of  a  Happy  Life 

114 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

A  beanfield  in  blossom  smells  as  sweet,  io8. 

A  Chieftain  to  the  Highlands  bound,  46. 

A  frog  he  would  a-wooing  go,  38. 

A  good  sword  and  a  trusty  hand,  14. 

A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal,  69. 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea,  143. 

A  widow  bird  sate  mourning  for  her  love,  JO. 

A  wind  is  brushing  down  the  clover,  184. 

Above  yon  sombre  swell  of  land,  166. 

Abroad  on  a  winter's  night  there  ran,  63. 

Ah,  what  avails  the  sceptred  race,  57. 

Alas!  my  love,  you  do  me  wrong,  189. 

All  day  long  the  traffic  goes,  131. 

All  night  had  shout  of  men  and  cry,  195. 

Among  the  woods  and  tillage,  214. 

And  did  those  feet  in  ancient  time,  79. 

And  now  all  nature  seemed  in  love,  48. 

Are  you  awake,  Gemelli,  179. 

As  I  came  thro'  Sandgate,  15. 

As  I  sat  under  a  sycamore  tree,  75. 

Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows,  191. 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field,  166. 
Behold,  within  the  leafy  shade,  58. 
Beneath  these  fruit-tree  boughs  that  shed,  65. 

Christmas  Eve,  and  twelve  of  the  clock,  125. 
Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love,  187. 

Dear  is  my  little  native  vale,  134. 

Death  stands  above  me,  whispering  low,  115. 

Drake  he's  in  his  hammock  an'  a  thousand  mile  away,  142. 


236  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair,  135. 

Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see,  6. 

Far  are  the  shades  of  Arabia,  183. 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun,  193. 

./irst  came  the  primrose,  42. 

For  Mercy,  Courage,  Kindness,  Mirth,  109. 

Fresh  with  all  airs  of  woodland  brooks,  184. 

Gay  go  up  and  gay  go  down,  31. 

Go,  for  they  call  you,  shepherd,  from  tne  hill!  215. 

Goblins  came,  on  mischief  bent,  171. 

Good-morrow  to  the  day  so  fair,  138. 

Good  people  all,  of  every  sort,  5. 

Good  speed,  for  I  this  day,  124. 

Gorbo,  as  thou  earnest  this  way,  60. 

Had  I  a  golden  pound  to  spend,  172. 
Hamelin  Town  's  in  Brunswick,  93. 
Happy  the  man,  whose  wish  and  care,  22. 
He  comes  on  chosen  evenings,  10. 
He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek,  80. 
Her  arms  across  her  breast  she  laid,  16. 
Here  lies  our  Sovereign  Lord  the  King,  150. 
Here  lies,  whom  hound  did  ne'er  pursue,  122. 
How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught,  114. 
How  many  miles  is  it  to  Babylon?  41. 
How  nice  it  is  to  eat,  11, 
How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest,  79. 
How  sweet  I  roam'd  from  field  to  field,  128. 
How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze,  211. 
How  weak  a  star  doth  rule  mankind,  86. 

I  am  a  willow-wren,  121. 

I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern,  24. 

I  had  a  little  hobby-horse,  35. 

I  had  a  little  nut-tree,  nothing  would  it  bear,  36. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  237 

I  had  a  little  pony,  34. 

I  love  the  fitful  gust  that  shakes,  210. 

I  remember,  I  remember,  57. 

I  saw  with  open  eyes,  10. 

I  strove  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my  strife,  115. 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud,  107. 

I  will  make  you  brooches  and  toys  for  your  delight,  50. 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies,  73. 

If  I  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me,  174. 

If  there  were  dreams  to  sell,  27. 

I'll  hope  no  more,  185. 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free,  186. 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree,  84. 

It  was  the  frog  in  the  well,  32. 

Jack  and  Joan,  they  think  no  ill,  17. 
John  Anderson  my  jo,  John,  170. 
Johnny  shall  have  a  new  bonnet,  32. 

Lawn  as  white  as  driven  snow,  70. 

Little  trotty  wagtail,  he  went  in  the  rain,  2. 

Lord,  thou  hast  given  me  a  cell,  203. 

Mad  Patsy  said,  he  said  to  me,  2. 

Mary  had  a  little  Iamb,  41. 

Methinks  this  world  is  oddly  made,  91. 

Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill,  21. 

Mrs.  Thomas  Willow  seems  very  glum,  173. 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold,  107. 

My  little  son,  who  look'd  from  thoughtful  eyes,  175. 

My  noble,  lovely  little  Peggy,  28. 

My  prime  of  youth  is  but  a  frost  of  cares,  84. 

My  soul,  there  is  a  country,  113. 

Now  that  the  winter  's  gone,  the  earth  hath  lost,  105. 
Now  the  bright  morning  star,  day's  harbinger,  23. 
Nymph,  nymph,  what  are  your  beads?  139. 


238  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

O  blithe  New-comer!  I  have  heard,  9. 

O  Captain!  my  Captain!  our  fearful  trip  is  done,  140. 

O  Lord,  who  didst  create  all  things,  176. 

O  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home,  13. 

O  my  Luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose,  192, 

O  sing  unto  my  roundelay,  129. 

O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms,  136. 

O  where  hae  ye  been.  Lord  Randal,  my  son?  76. 

O  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  autumn's  being,  199. 

Oh,  to  be  in  England  now  that  April 's  there,  23. 

Old  King  Cole,  36. 

On  a  poet's  lips  I  slept,  112. 

Over  hill,  over  dale,  70. 

Pack,  clouds,  away,  and  welcome  day,  71. 
Perched  on  my  city  office-stool,  169. 
Piping  down  the  valleys  wild,  I. 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky,  29. 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruii:fulness,  202. 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways,  1 1 2. 

She  stood  breast-high  amid  the  corn,  44. 

Shepherds  all,  and  maidens  fair,  52. 

Simple  Simon  met  a  pieman,  34. 

Sing  for  the  sun  your  lyric,  lark,  7. 

Sing  his  praises  that  doth  keep,  105. 

So  now  is  come  our  joyful'st  feast,  147. 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low,  127. 

Sweet  are  the  thoughts  that  savour  of  content,  82. 

Sweet  Auburn,  loveliest  village  of  the  plain,  150. 

'T  was  on  a  lofty  vase's  side,  3. 
'T  would  ring  the  bells  of  heaven,  78. 
Teach  me,  my  God  and  King,  77. 
Tell  me  about  that  harvest  field,  196. 
Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind,  ill. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  239 

The  bird  in  the  corn,  59. 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day,  205. 

The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river,  no. 

The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state,  192. 

The  green  corn  waving  in  the  dale,  168. 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece!  87. 

The  lopped  tree  in  time  may  grow  again,  85. 

The  man  of  life  upright,  IC9. 

The  north  wind  doth  blow,  37, 

The  stars  must  make  an  awful  noise,  24. 

The  sun  descending  in  the  west,  53. 

The  warm  sun  is  failing,  the  bleak  wind  is  wailing,  12. 

The  wind's  on  the  wold,  27. 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon,  113. 

The  year's  at  the  spring,  127. 

There  was  a  crooked  man,  and  he  went  a  crooked  mile,  35. 

There  was  a  jolly  miller  once,  42. 

There  was  a  man  of  Newington,  35. 

There  was  a  youth,  a  well-beloved  youth,  144. 

There  was  no  song  nor  shout  of  joy,  196. 

They  told  me,  Heraclitus,  they  told  me  you  were  dead,  194. 

This  only  grant  me,  that  my  means  may  lie,  56. 

This  world  a-hunting  is,  92. 

Thistle  and  darnel  and  dock  grew  there,  67. 

Thy  beauty  haunts  me  heart  and  soul,  178. 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright,  120. 

Time,  you  old  gipsy  man,  81. 

To  bed,  to  bed,  41. 

To  my  true  king  I  offered  free  from  stain,  141. 

Tom  Pearse,  Tom  Pcarse,  lend  me  your  gray  mare,  18. 

Twilight.   Red  in  the  west,  178. 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky,  92. 

What  is  this  life  if,  full  of  care,  55. 
What  pleasure  have  great  princes,  82. 
When  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come,  6t. 


240  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

When  fishes  flew  and  forests  walked,  119. 

When  I  a  verse  shall  make,  181. 

When  I  was  but  thirteen  or  so,  181. 

When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall,  8. 

When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time,  188. 

When  tender  ewes,  brought  home  with  evening  sun,  51. 

When  the  green  woods  laugh  with  the  voice  of  joy,  131. 

When  the  voices  of  children  are  heard  on  the  green,  126. 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought,  195. 

When  we  were  building  Skua  Light,  I16. 

Whene'er  I  see  soft  hazel  eyes,  106. 

Where  are  you  going,  my  pretty  maid,  37. 

Where  is  every  piping  lad,  49. 

Where  the  pools  are  bright  and  deep,  45. 

Who  is  Sylvia?  what  is  she,  125. 

Why,  why  repine,  my  pensive  friend,  146. 

Within  a  thick  and  spreading  hawthorn  bush,  116. 

Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonie  Doon,  190. 

Ye  have  been  fresh  and  green,  198. 

Ye  Highlands  and  ye  Lawlands,  72. 

Yet  if  His  Majesty,  our  sovereign  lord,  104. 


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